


life vest under your seat

by werebird



Series: Pilot AU [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Aromantic Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bittersweet Ending, Casual Sex, Comeplay, Complicated Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kink Discovery, Kink Negotiation, Kristen from Statistics makes an appearance, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multi, Pilots, Promiscuity, Relationship Negotiation, Slut Shaming, Steve is fine..., Texting, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, aromantic pride, but like..old school, the kind of fine that isn't fine at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-25 10:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 106,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebird/pseuds/werebird
Summary: Steve was doing alright. Really. He had a good job at a commercial airline, a nice apartment and fantastic sex with zero interest in romantic relationships. He was quite literal, on top of the world. If only it wasn't for this one douchebag trying to bring him down. And the fact that Steve was so far up his ass to let him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are two sides to every story...  
[Brock POV here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375467)

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking," Steve announced over the com system. "We're only a short while from Chicago now, so on behalf of my co-pilot and me, I'd like to thank you for flying with us today. We hope you had a good time on board, goodbye everyone and, hopefully, see you soon." 

Next to him Sam yawned and took a sip from his coffee. In the past three days alone, they had flown halfway across the world together. Now they were looking forward to having half a week off. 

"You're still coming tonight, are you?" Sam asked. Steve probably looked equally exhausted as his co-pilot. He was lucky that his voice rarely showed it. Otherwise he'd fear that some skittish passengers would be more prone to lose faith in his abilities. Aviatophobia was his declared enemy, and he didn't want to feed anyone's fear. They were safe with him. 

He had perfect stats. Fourteen years in the cockpit with over twenty thousand flight hours. His airline was lucky to have him. 

"It's your birthday, buddy. Wouldn't miss it for the world," he assured Sam, checking speed and altitude. They were just waiting on instructions from the tower now to proceed to landing. 

"I told Bucky I didn't want a huge party and you know what he said?" Sam asked. He swallowed the last of his coffee and secured the empty cup. 

"That you only turn thirty-four once?" Steve guessed. He checked the weather again, but everything was clear. 

"That you only turn thirty-four once," Sam confirmed, shaking his head. 

Buck had been Steve's best friend throughout all his childhood and teenage years. They were only briefly out of touch the summer Steve started his training with an airline that was involved in both commercial travel and cargo operations all over the world, while Bucky joined the Air Force. And a year later an extended jet program all the way around the world. It hadn't been their fault that their passion for flying had taken them onto such different paths. 

When Buck had returned home though, the first thing he did was visit Steve in Chicago to catch up. Where Steve had introduced him to Sam. The only person he actually liked having in the cockpit with him. 

And the two had been together ever since. 

Steve was happy for them. Steve had been happy the day of their first date. Steve had been happy to see them make it through the first six months. He had been happy when Bucky had moved in. But Steve had been especially happy for them after that one night, when all of them had too much tequila and behaved like highschool girls on a sleepover in every straight young man's fantasy. 

It only happened once, and they never really talked about it after, but having a threesome with his two best friends had really convinced Steve that he could have the best of all worlds. Even or maybe because he was lacking romantic attraction entirely. Who needs love anyway when you have a fantastic job, great friends and amazing sex with basically whoever you wanted. 

No, Steve had it good and he knew it. His salary paid for a nice apartment and his favorite clothes, and his good looks paid for his very vital sex drive. He was a lucky son of a bitch who had regular outbursts of overwhelming happiness. 

He was who everyone liked to hate, except for the fact that he was too damn lovable. He had manners, a positive attitude and a responsible work ethic. Yep, everyone knew it was impossibly hard to hate him. 

"I should warn you though," Sam said, snapping a picture of the breathtaking sunset with his phone. Pilots weren't so different from passengers, they just had a better view. "Nat's coming and she's bringing a date." 

"A date?" Steve asked, curiosity ignited. Although, he himself didn't like getting tangled up in the dating scene, he enjoyed hearing other people's stories. Love was fun when it didn't involve him. The drama was priceless and Steve was a bit of a gossip machine himself. 

"This guy Clint," Sam told him. "Think they've worked together before." 

"Never heard of him," Steve said. Sure there were probably a million pilots out there, but everyone based in Chicago tended to know each other, if only by proxy. 

"He's not flying," Sam clarified. "He's out on the ramp. Loaded her plane and then," Sam shrugged and added with more spice in his tone, "loaded her plane." 

"Good for her," Steve said and grinned. Part of him couldn't wait to meet this guy. Curiosity was Steve's greatest weakness. 

"I just don't want you to get in between anything," Sam said more serious now. "It's still fresh, and I don't think he knows that you two used to hook up." 

Steve and Nat were complete opposites. And that was what made them so great together in bed. She was a night-owl who hated socializing, but knew exactly what she wanted in between the sheets. And wasn't afraid to tell him. 

Steve was, well, Steve. He was excited about everything. And above all, he was excited about people. His job was a perfect fit for his personality. Nat on the other hand, who had an exceptional talent for flying, had been miserable when she used to be Steve's co-pilot for a couple of months years ago. It was only when she moved into cargo operations that she could finally breathe. The night flights fit her natural schedule anyway and she barely had to talk to anyone outside the tower. Since then she had blossomed into the awesome person he still adored to this day. 

Steve was only a little proud that he was the one suggesting the change of career that had turned her life around. What could he say? He really liked to help people. 

"I'm won't be getting in between anything," Steve promised. He respected Nat too much to mess with her relationships like that. 

"Good, because I think she misses you," Sam said. 

It was nice to hear, because Steve missed her too. They had been a match made in sin, and he's rarely had more satisfying sex with anyone else. And they had been happy with just that for a while. 

But then Nat had told him she was looking for something a little more serious and had started dating this ragingly jealous university professor. She had never even told Steve how they had met. Not that Steve cared. But that guy had been a pain in the ass for weeks back then. He had basically demanded they put not only their benefits on ice but their entire friendship. They hadn't. And so the professor had lasted no longer than two months before Nat had kicked him out. 

The moment Sam had told him about their break-up, Steve had started looking forward to maybe slowly rekindle things with Nat. Get back to where they had left it. But conflicting schedules had gotten in the way of it all so often that now, apparently, there was Clint. 

"I'm sure she's fine," Steve said nonetheless. After all, you could miss someone and not want them back at the same time. "I'm sure it's going to be a great party," he assured Sam. Bucky's parties always were. 

"I'll take your word for it," Sam mumbled and fastened his seatbelt as the instructions from Chicago O'Hare's traffic controller came through. "Here we go," he said and activated the intercom once more for Steve. 

"Cabin crew, prepare for landing." 

* * *

Steve grabbed a coffee at one of the shops on his way out and planted himself in the backseat of one of the taxis waiting outside. Planes approaching and taking off behind him. A wistful mood crawling up his chest. They had landed in good weather but thick clouds were already blocking the sun down here. It was going to rain tonight. It was late September but he already knew the holiday season was only a blink away. 

When he got home he stepped right into the hot stream of his oversized showerhead and treated his body to a full scrub and mango seed oil based aromatherapy. The high altitudes and the cabin pressure impacted his sense of smell and taste most of the day, so he enjoyed overindulging at home. 

He was still feeling a little exhausted and he didn't necessarily plan on anything happening tonight, but he didn't like having regrets either. So he cleaned himself thoroughly, from his cock to his rim, and trimmed some of the hair around his balls and between his asscheeks. 

He already felt better when he dried himself off, and although caffeine and alcohol didn't mix well, he poured himself a big glass of wine while making another cup of coffee. He was still naked from the shower, but he could already feel himself getting in the mood for Sam's birthday party. 

He shaved his face, although it hadn't really been that long and used one of the better aftershaves, a gift from himself. Picking out clothes wasn't hard either. He liked a more casual look when he wasn't in uniform, so he picked a pair of fitted jeans with one of his older shirts that was just a size too small. It was going to be a great night. 

* * *

Bucky had booked Sam's entire favorite restaurant for the night, buffet and an open bar included. It was the perfect way to ring in his days off. 

Steve knew Sam was well-liked, but he hadn't anticipated the place to be this packed when he walked through the door. 

"Steve!" Buck yelled over a group of people Steve vaguely recognized, but couldn't recall ever talking to. He waved at Bucky and squeezed his way towards him. 

"You're lucky you were only delayed half an hour," he said, looking stern. But he leaned in for a quick hug anyway. "What were you thinking making the star of the party late?" 

"Not my fault Sam had to work on his birthday," Steve shrugged. Maybe he had requested him when schedules were due, and maybe Sam had begged him for an excuse to not celebrate, but Bucky didn't need to know that. "Not my fault there's always traffic over Newark." 

"Well' I'm glad you both made it. You look good," Buck said and Steve averted his eyes. He knew he was quite a catch, but that didn't mean he would ever get used to being complimented. He was the poster boy for the bullied-in-childhood, late-bloomer, post-puberty-wow character. No one had expected him to ever be able to meet any of the physical requirements for becoming a pilot. But fortune favored the brave, and Steve had never given up on his life's dream. 

"You're not looking too bad either," Steve said though, with a glimmer of hope that he hadn't cleansed himself for nothing. He tugged lightly on the tie in front of the buttons of Bucky's white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His left arm was scarred from an accident years ago, but Bucky didn't mind showing it off anyway. He had nice arms and Steve missed the way they slung around his waist. "Tequila?" he asked, eyes roaming the room to locate the bar. 

"Better not," Buck said, straightening the knot of his tie at the collar. "You know how that ends." 

Yes, Steve knew and he had kind of gotten himself in the mood for it now. "How about I get you a vodka tonic?" Bucky asked. 

Steve nodded. "Sounds good." The glass of wine from his fridge at home had already worn off. 

"Be right back," Buck said, leaving Steve to fend for himself. The crowd swallowed him immediately and Steve turned in his spot, unsure what to do with this night. 

He tried to spot Sam anywhere in the room, but he had no luck. He recognized most of the faces in the back, pilots and flight attendants from all airlines. Airport personnel. Acquaintances. Friends. Hook-ups. But no Sam. No Nat either with her new boyfriend Clint. 

He moved through the crowd, still no idea where to find the bar he was promised, when he saw Brock Rumlow standing alone on the side with his eyes on his phone. 

Brock was one of the guys working the security checks. One of the guys who Steve didn't mind at all being patted down by. He was tall but had a shy quality about him. Good looking, but not exactly a pretty boy. Steve liked that. He had enough pretty when he looked in the mirror. He liked Brock for his brash laugh that everyone else seemed to hate, for his rough features and the strong hands. Unfortunately, Brock had never shown any sign of interest in Steve in return. 

"Someone stood you up?" Steve asked, leaning against the wall by Brock's side. 

To Brock's defense, Steve had never really tried to make anything happen between them. Or anyone working security for that matter. Somehow he had always been too intimidated and his mind blanked regularly when he was asked to spread his legs so they could pat down his pants. Could anyone blame him really? First, these guys had a tough job and Steve would focus on not making anyone's day more difficult. Second, he didn't need anyone complaining about unprofessional behavior on his side. Steve had a crispy clean record and he liked to keep it that way. 

Not recognizing Steve by his voice, Brock looked up from his screen, raising his eyebrows at Steve before he locked it and slid the phone into his pocket. 

"Something like that," Brock said, but he smiled at Steve. It was always intriguing, seeing his colleagues in something other than their usual work clothes. Getting an idea of the person behind the job. And to Steve's surprise Brock was wearing a nice pair of leather pants, tight around the hips but straight at the leg, that he had paired with a neatly ironed white dress shirt. The shirt looked great on him and it was just a little bit see through, giving Steve a tantalizing idea of what his nipples would look like beneath white sheets. "But you know what they say," Brock went on, "One man's trash-," he didn't finish, but winked at Steve instead. 

Usually, Steve wasn't the one to encourage self-deprecating humor, but Brock delivered it with such a charm that Steve couldn't help himself and let a little laugh escape his mouth. 

Okay, maybe he liked Brock a lot. Brock was handsome, he was funny, and above all Steve could tell that he wasn't a guy that cared about what people thought. The kind of guys that Steve liked best. 

"You a friend of Sam's?" Steve asked to lighten the small talk. He already knew they weren't. If Brock had been spending time with Sam, Steve would know. 

"Friend of a friend," Brock let him know. "Same friend that stood me up." 

A friend, Steve noted silently. Not a date. "Not cool," Steve said, feeling with him. Although he didn't mind it himself, he knew that for a lot of people it was a nightmare to end up alone at a party they had only tagged along to. "Good thing though that all of Sam's friends are fantastic people," Steve assured him. "Real gems." 

"Seems like it," Brock said, glancing at Steve, but then looking over the room instead. Brock had beautiful green eyes and his lashes were dark and thick, just like his eyebrows and hair, and Steve wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through it. 

"There you are," Bucky called, way too loud, tearing Steve from his fantasy. He stepped right up between them, forcing Brock to take a step back. He pushed the forgotten longdrink into Steve's hand. The glass was cool and slippery from the condensation. "I was looking for you. There's someone I want you to meet." Buck tried to guide Steve off by his elbow. Steve stumbled for a second, a little torn between wanting to stay with Brock and be introduced to someone new. 

"I'll get myself another beer," Brock said over Bucky's head, nodding before he turned away to leave Steve behind. 

"Find me later," Steve called back while being pulled along. Not sure if Brock had heard him. 

"Who invited Rumlow?" Bucky asked as he led Steve through the small crowd. 

"He's a plus one," Steve just said, knowing how much Bucky hated when people messed with his guest lists. "How do you know him?" 

"Long story," Bucky told him. "Not for tonight." 

He led Steve to a table by the windows at the back, where Sam was seated with an inflatable crown on his head and an open bottle of champagne in front of his nose. Steve could tell he was miserable, but he still smiled, so it wasn't time for Steve to rescue him yet. Nat was sitting across from Sam in a strapless silver dress that made Steve's desire stir at the sight. God, it had really been too long. 

"This is Clint," Buck said, and Steve tore his gaze from Nat's collarbone to the guy next to her. 

"Steve," he said, and smiled. "Nice to meet you." 

"Likewise," Clint said, and Steve wondered briefly if there was a chance this dude was into threesomes too. Right there in this moment, he doubted he could live without seeing Nat naked at least once more. And Clint wasn't looking too bad either. Not exactly who Steve would have gone after, but since he'd convinced Nat to give him a chance, there must have been something about him after all. 

"Hi Nat," Steve said then, raising his glass for her. He'd never ignore her. In fact, he had many times saved saying hello to her for last. She deserved better than someone waiting in line behind her. She deserved better than any rushed greeting. Always did she deserve better. Maybe it was just Steve who liked having the time for lingering looks and touches. A quick dirty whisper. 

It was torture now, not being able to do that. Nat gave him a little smirk, clearly knowing about his misery. He downed the vodka tonic in one go, nodded at her again before he left the glass at their table to make his way back. 

"We've invited Nat and Clint for dinner tomorrow," Buck told him, scrambling after Steve. He sounded somewhat proud, catching up easily. 

It was a bit of a running gag by now that Sam and Buck struggled so much to befriend other couples. In fact, they had never succeeded to do so. They had spent most of the past five years with Steve. With Steve and Nat. So as far as Steve was concerned, this was all Nat's doings and Bucky was just freeloading his double date. 

"Sounds great," he said, trying to mirror Bucky's excitement. He deserved it and Steve couldn't care less. He was already keeping his eyes out for Brock again. "Hey, where's the fucking bar in this place?" Steve asked. 

"Round the corner," Buck told him, pointed him in the right direction. "You're pissed about Nat, I can tell," he added, but Steve shrugged. He was in a room full of people he could take back to his place tonight. He could name at least five who'd leave with him right this second. 

"You know I don't get jealous," he said, didn't know why he felt the urge to dispute him. "I'm happy if she's happy." 

"You don't get jealous, but you still get pissed that some people make up rules for dating and relationships," Buck argued. 

"Because they're stupid," Steve told him, eager to get away from this conversation. 

Bucky laughed at that, and although Steve knew it wasn't a serious discussion, it had a condescending taste. "How about you join us tomorrow?" Bucky asked. Placed a hand on Steve's shoulder. "You know you're always welcome in our house, right? Even on double date night." 

"I don't have to bring anyone, do I?" Steve asked. 

"Never," Buck told him immediately. It reminded Steve that yes, his younger self hadn't been wrong about Bucky. About the kind of friend he would be. The best kind. 

"I'll think about it," he said. He turned his head trying to spot Brock anywhere and when he turned back, Buck was gone, heading back to Sam and the others. 

For a moment he thought about following him, knowing he wasn't exactly the best guest with how little time he'd spend at Sam's table, but then someone tipped his shoulder and when Steve turned around he grinned at the sight of Brock's hesitant expression. 

"Beer?" he held out a bottle that he had obviously gotten for Steve, his own in the other hand. 

"You're a lifesaver," Steve said, still smiling, and took it. "Thanks." 

Brock held his gaze for a second before he glanced down at his shoes and Steve followed his eyes for a moment, clocking the naive sex appeal of suede sneakers across from shiny leather boots. The idea of where this evening could lead started to entice Steve. Seduce him. Excite him. 

When he looked back up, Brock was already watching him, waiting for him. He knocked his bottle gently against Steve's and nodded at him. "Cheers," he said and took a sip. 

Steve tipped the head of the bottle against his bottom lip, his tongue getting a first taste before he lifted the bottom and let some of the beer run into his mouth. He watched Brock watch him as he did so, the cool liquid wetting his mouth, jaw and throat working as he swallowed. 

His hand was steady. With both feet on the floor, he tipped his hips forward just that little bit, brought his shoulders back. Brock's gaze didn't bother him, it boosted his confidence instead as he recognized the spark of curiosity in his eyes. 

"How's work on the ground?" Steve asked then, he didn't mind small talk. He lacked originality every once in a while, but he felt confident enough to move beyond those phrases with ease. His curiosity was always genuine and he was generous with his attention. 

He could tell now that Brock wasn't used to it. Wasn't used to be someone's sole focus. He let his eyes wander often and he started to nudge the edge of the label off his bottle with a nervous fingernail. Steve liked his nervousness. Drank it up eagerly. Nervousness combined with shy interest made for the most alluring, slow burning flirts. 

"Pays alright," Brock told him. "Hours could be better. Promised myself I'd stop working shifts once I hit forty." He shrugged. If wrestling with his broken promise or his age, Steve couldn't tell. "Turned forty in January," Brock added, taking another sip from the bottle. "Worked the night shift nine times just this month." 

Steve pulled a sympathetic face. He meant it, although, personally, he was a big fan of airports at night. The quiet strangeness of abandoned liminal spaces. They inhabited a special kind of magic. 

"O'Hare's lucky to have you," Steve told him. "All of you," he adds. "Say what you want about queues at check-in and boarding, but I've never heard any of the pilots or cabin crews complain about security held ups." 

"That's 'cause you guys just breeze through priority. Everyone else complains. Trust me," he laughed, exhaustion shining through. "They complain plenty." 

"You like flying?" Steve asked, seeking common ground. 

"Depends on the leg room," Brock said. Laughed again. He started to loosen up and Steve liked watching him do so. 

"Fair enough," Steve said with a smile of himself. He liked the way Brock's face softened with his amusement. With his jokes. With every second sip of his beer. Plus, he was confident that Brock would change his mind if he ever was a passenger with Steve. So the differing opinions didn't bother him too much. Steve had a way of changing people's minds. He had to yet meet someone he couldn't convince of his skills. In all kinds of areas. "Your folks from here?" 

Brock shook his head, expression changing almost unnoticeable. Steve caught it though, the shadow of complicated family relations. He knew it all too well. The heavy things to explain. "New York," Brock said though, answering Steve's question despite it. "Lower East Side." 

"Manhattan," Steve said, whistled through his teeth, but didn't bother to hide just that hint of rivalry. 

"Yours?" Brock asked. He hadn't miss Steve's tone either. 

"Brooklyn," Steve said and grinned. He raised his bottle again. He had no idea Brock was from the East coast, too. To be honest, he wouldn't have guessed it. It made him wonder about further surprises waiting down the line. 

"What made you leave?" Brock asked and Steve made a note of his choice of words. 

"Work takes you places," was all that Steve could tell without losing his good mood. 

Brock nodded. He didn't seem eager to press the topic and Steve was grateful for it. 

"You want to check out the buffet?" Steve asked. It was some kind of mid-range shot, because although Brock had fetched him that beer, they didn't have to stick together this early into the evening. 

People rarely did at parties. Especially, when everyone knew each other. Everyone running in the same circles. However wide and casual they were. Maybe Steve had set his eyes on Brock with some degree of determination, but that didn't mean that Brock had done the same. 

Those thoughts weren't unfounded and Brock took a long second to scan the room for other familiar faces before he really considered Steve's offer. 

It wasn't that Steve didn't understand, but he let pride take the best of him, when he waved his own offer off. "I don't want to keep you," he said casually, already checking if his friends were still at the table in the back. He had turned halfway, almost bumping into a group of check-in counter girls from the airline when Brock grabbed him by the elbow, his hand more decisive than his words. 

Steve waited for him to make up his mind, patiently hovering just at the edge of Brock's personal space. 

"I don't know many people here," Brock admitted although they had vaguely established that earlier. "I feel like I'd be keeping you." 

Oh. 

"No," Steve said, smiling encouragingly. Brock wasn't keeping him at all. The opposite was true. "I see these people every other day," he reminded him. "It's nice to talk to someone new for a change." 

They stared at each other and the chatter of the crowd blurred into an indistinguishable white noise. The moment stretched and Brock's hand on Steve's arm started to weigh less than their look. Steve could hear his own breath, his own heart beating with the passing seconds. 

It was in that same moment that Brock stepped closer and Steve felt the urge to close the distance all the way, aligning their bodies to see it all the way through. Let their bodies work out where the night would take them. 

But he didn't. 

"You want to start dinner with cake?" Brock asked, making Steve laugh as he nodded, the moments passing over without ledge. 

The tension faded and yet Steve still hoped there'd be another chance later. Another moment like this. 

They got themselves full off the buffet, but skipped the cake in the end. The food was good but the drinks were better. And after another beer Steve switched back to his beloved vodka tonic and Brock picked a white russian off the cocktail menu. 

To Bucky's visible disapproval, they spent a little while at the table with Nat and Sam, but eventually, after finding themselves lingering around the corner several times anyway, to have the conversation to themselves, settled down at the bar, where it was just slightly quieter and Steve didn't have to see Clint's smug face. He withheld that particular detail from Brock though, for the time being. 

They talked about work, about adjusting to life and weather in Chicago. About sports as far as Steve was caught up. Working through time zones constantly made it quite difficult to catch games or matches live. And so he had only ever allowed himself to become a casual fan. He kept up with a handful of leagues, but let passion pass him by. Brock liked the occasional baseball game, but he didn't seem too involved either. 

They talked about the difficulties of adopting pets with schedules like theirs. To Steve's further surprise, Brock had, despite it all, given his heart and home to a cat called Crossbones. White markings on otherwise black fur that resembled the Jolly Roger a little too much had inspired her name. 

"That's cute," Steve noted on that particular detail. "You ever considered getting a second one? Expanding your little family?" 

Brock shrugged. "Never gave it much thought," he just said. "Whatever happens, happens." 

Steve nodded, although he could tell there was more to it. Maybe Brock wanted kids. Wanted a different life. Leave the city behind and move to the suburbs. It wasn't Steve's place though to inquire. He wasn't going to be that person. To make dreams like this come true. Steve delivered exclusively on different kinds of fantasies. 

Time slipped by and Steve got lost in the buzz of his tipsy body and the endless potential of the night. Over time, as Brock grew more and more confident, Steve had learned that he was quite a gesturer, hands moving with his stories, opinions on his lips, in his expressions, down to the tips of his fingers that slid over the table to put emphasis on a distinct point. 

Steve was drunk with Brock's company, fleeting touches everywhere. His arm, mid-thigh, or where the back of his hand connected with his wrist. Curious looks and discovering glances. With the exception of flying, there wasn't anything Steve enjoyed more in life than flirting. 

"You're a great guy, Brock," Steve said. His brain was tucked in all cozy into the soft buzz of the alcohol. Steve felt straight up invincible, he was drunk on the feeling as much as the vodka, but he knew better than to come onto a co-worker without a certain level of discretion. "It's a shame we never had a chance to talk earlier." 

Brock smiled into his glass, ice cubes watering down what was left of his drink. He nodded, barely noticeable, and glanced back up to Steve from the side. It wasn't one of those meaningless polite looks. He was in, but he didn't know how to say it. Brock was too proud for self-doubt, but he wasn't beyond second thoughts. 

"You want to take this talk someplace private?" Steve asked, decided to take matters into his own hands. He wanted to get off and he wanted to get off with Brock. And he wanted to make his intentions transparent. "Maybe do a little more than talk?" 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙈🙈🙈

Brock's eyes were still on him, contemplating, deliberating, considering. He held Steve's gaze the entire time. It took a certain kind of courage, a certain kind of character to actively witness one's own decisions, and Steve was positively surprised to see Brock facing his truth in that moment. 

Steve was aware that his direct approach that was always aimed at making situations less complicated, could sometimes have the opposite effect. Could sometimes make those he wanted to be open and frank with feel uneasy or anxious. Feel unfairly put on the spot, and thus feel startled or pressured. 

Without any further discussion, Brock slid from the bar stool onto his feet. "Let's go get your jacket." 

* * *

Outside, Brock gave his address to the taxi driver and Steve ended up paying after a short and silent ride. He didn't mind spending the money for spending the night. He merely thought it good etiquette. And he was convinced Brock would have done the same, if they'd chosen Steve's place as their destination. 

Brock's hands were nervous as he fumbled with the keys, but Steve just smiled at him, pretending he didn't notice. 

"Don't let the cat slip out," Brock said, before he opened the door carefully to let them in. But Crossbones was nowhere to be seen, so Steve closed the door slowly behind him. It was late after all and there was no need to disturb the neighbors. 

The place was small, security didn't pay as much as piloting, but it was clean and organized, so that nothing about the rooms was suffocating. Brock checked the living room for the cat while Steve waited in the tiny hallway. Since Brock probably hadn't planned on bringing someone back tonight, Steve thought it'd be rude to invade his privacy any more than necessary. Plus, it only took a couple of seconds for Brock to return and lead him into the bedroom, where he turned to face Steve, a foot of distance between them. 

Brock leaned forward, but changed his mind immediately and pulled back again. His hesitation not unfamiliar to Steve. He could be intimidating, looks and status making him a little more difficult to approach. 

"I won't bite," Steve said softly. Encouragingly. He could have just leaned in himself and make the first move, but since Brock had already tried, Steve didn't want to take the triumph of initiating the kiss away from him. 

Another nervous smile, a shaky breath, but then Brock didn't just lean in, but took that last step into Steve's space.

Steve watched him, heart beating strong with anticipation. He had expected a hand on his waist first, or fingers cradling his jaw, but given that Steve was just a little bit taller, Brock went for the back of his neck right away to pull Steve close. 

Steve obeyed, closed his eyes and duck his head so Brock's lips could reach his mouth, doubt and hesitation chased away by Steve's words or Brock's own determination. 

Like most people, Steve hated and cherished first kisses alike. The build up was always fun. Desire, novelty, arousal. But they were almost always bad as soon as they happened. Different tastes colliding. Different styles. 

Brock tried to cover his nervousness with just a little too much posed confidence, his face just that fraction of an inch too close to Steve's. It limited the play of urgency and leeway that allowed them to savor the physical intimacy. 

The unnecessary pressure made Brock's lips seem harder than they needed to be, teeth waiting just behind them. 

It was a common mistake and Steve knew just how to handle it to turn the kiss around. He hummed low, pulled Brock in even closer for just one second, before he sank back a little onto his heels, on a content exhale, loosening things up between them. 

Thankfully, Brock went with it and relaxed, lips softening so Steve could tease them apart with the tip of his tongue. Steve had always figured there were two types of people, those that preferred to kiss and those that preferred to be kissed. Steve belonged with the former group, enjoying the freedom of dictating timing and pace. Plus, having two tongues in his mouth just never felt quite right. Lucky for him, when all else failed, there was always just enough room to meet in the middle, with grazing lips and waiting mouths. But for now, Steve was fully pleased, being allowed to taste liquor and cream off Brock's tongue. 

Brock's bottom lip fit just right in between Steve's as he ran his fingernails over the stubble around Brock's chin. 

Steve knew he was a good kisser, but he didn't mind proving his skills every single time. It wasn't so much about the actual technique, less was more anyway, it was the way he used his entire body to accentuate the kiss. Hips gently swaying forward against Brock, fingers brushing over the skin on his neck as fleeting as he brushed his lips over Brock's, breaking the kiss without breaking apart. Being there, in Brock's space, mouth so damn close, lips wet and so unbelievably tempting. Just like his own. It was the way he moved his foot between Brock's, parting his legs with an assertive stance. His entire body already attuned to the next thing, the anticipation of the next step, their next first. 

Steve grabbed two handfuls of Brock's ass and then let his fingers slide along the back of the leather pants as he sank to his knees. 

"Steve," Brock said gently, fingers gliding through Steve's hair nervously. "You don't have to." 

But Steve wanted to. He wanted to get a taste of Brock Rumlow, wanted to see him lose his cool just a little bit. Or entirely. 

"Too fast?" Steve still asked. He wouldn't oppose to prolonging their make-out, but Steve's day and the evening had been long enough, and he didn't want to lose momentum. No night lasted forever. 

Brock shook his head. "Not if you want to," he said, looking down at Steve and tracing his jaw with one knuckle. 

"It'll be my pleasure," Steve told him, squeezing the back of Brock's thighs for assurance. 

He opened the button at the waistband and licked his lips when he pulled the zipper down slowly. Then looked up at Brock, meeting his eyes with a submissive expression. Everyone liked that once he was down on his knees. Brock too. He swallowed, his mouth dry, but with a wet patch on his boxers. Right above the head of his cock. Steve circled the spot with a finger, teasing the tip with it. 

When he had the zipper down all the way, Steve pulled his cock free over the waistband of Brock's boxers and Brock helped by holding the fabric down for Steve. 

The hair down Brock's navel and around his cock was wild and dark aside from a little shiny smear of precome where his cock had been tucked away tightly. Without hesitation Steve stuck his tongue out to lick it off, just a taste to raise his appetite. 

Brock moaned at the sight alone and Steve could see his hand twitching. He was torn. He wanted to touch Steve, his neck, his hair, his face, but he also wanted to make sure Steve had undisturbed access to his cock. Eventually he settled for holding onto his boxers for now and Steve moved on to explore Brock's lower belly and hips with his tongue. 

"You don't half-ass things, do you?" Brock asked, and although he tried to sound casual, his strained voice betrayed him. 

Steve shook his head, leaned back a little, shifting his weight from his knees to his feet. "Not once in my life," he said and took hold of Brock's cock. 

He opened his mouth slow enough for Brock to reach out with one hand and trace his lips, then sink his thumb between them briefly to feel over his tongue. 

It was a blatant power play and although Steve wasn't particularly into it, he didn't mind it either. The appeal was obvious and while he didn't find much arousal in his own submission, he did find pleasure in seeing Brock become less tense and bolder instead. Plus, he definitely liked Brock's fingers enough to have them in his mouth. Much like his cock. 

It was on the shorter side, but firm and thick and fit just right in Steve's grip. He gave it a couple of loose strokes to pass the time, reminding Brock what Steve's mouth was actually open for. 

Brock pulled his hand back slowly, hesitation creeping back into his movements. 

"This isn't your first, is it?" Steve asked. The guy was forty and if this was his first blowjob, Steve might just be fine to do nothing else for the night than to suck Brock off. Over and over again to make up for lost time. 

"First in a while," Brock said, and Steve appreciated the honesty. "Don't know if you'd appreciate this ending prematurely." 

"What if I make it really bad?" Steve offered and Brock laughed. Dissolving awkwardness was Steve's specialty. He wanted people to feel secure with him. There was nothing that couldn't be resolved with open communication and a little bit of humor. 

"Be my guest," Brock said, laughter still in his voice. It was nice to hear. 

Steve moved on him slowly, to give Brock time to get used to the sensation. He slowly kissed along the shaft, veins standing out beneath Steve's lips. Steve let the tip of his tongue graze over the skin lightly, saving the crown for last. Still trapped in his jeans, Steve's dick was joining the party. 

Brock relaxed, low hums escaping with his breaths, and Steve started using a little more pressure with his tongue the closer he came to the crown. He gave Brock a moment to breathe as he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, licking back and forth before he released it. 

He opened his mouth anew, this time he took the head of Brock's cock in at once. It was Brock who choked in that moment, as Steve played with his tongue along the underside of the shaft. 

Pulling off for a second, Steve took more of Brock in after, the length of his cock sliding over his lips with ease. 

Brock shuddered and let out another breathy moan. He was still holding the waistband down, but with Steve's mouth moving on his cock, inching closer to his body, he brushed the side of a finger under his chin or along his neatly shaved jaw. 

It was a sweet gesture, but Steve was never really in need for affirmation or care when he did this. He liked giving head. He liked using his lips, his tongue and, whenever appreciated, the grazing threat of his teeth. As much as he hated wet kisses on the mouth, he liked them everywhere else on the body all the more for it. He liked the intimate mess, liked the pleasure he was able to give, providing the sweetest suction with tender lips and spit-slick friction. He liked knowing the cock that was most likely going inside him, knowing it intimately, down to the texture of the skin and the taste of the slit. He liked using his own spit to help ease his fingers into whatever hole he was working open. He didn't have a preference. He had put his mouth anywhere between Nat's legs countless of times, fingers and tongue playing with her clit, her pussy, her ass. Whatever she was into that day, Steve was into. Mouth watering with the thought of her body, the thought of tasting her body inside and out. 

Steve used his mouth for anything important, for anything that was pleasurable. Talk, food and sex. Laughter. The occasional cigarette to wind down after a stressful week. Everything his mouth could do was a gift and he wasn't going to waste it. 

He closed his eyes and relaxed his jaw to suck Brock in to the base. He wasn't as desperate yet to touch himself, but it itched him to release his dick from the confinement of his jeans. 

"Holy shit," Brock groaned roughly, but given his size it couldn't have been the surprise of being taken in whole. It was probably the forgotten feeling making itself known again, the sensation of Steve swallowing around him, trying to keep any other reflexes at bay. The sheer sight of Steve on his knees, offering his mouth must have done the rest. 

Steve breathed through his nose and pulled back a little. The slow wet friction wasn't only for Brock's benefit, Steve enjoyed it just as much, the drag of skin against his lips and the corners of his mouth. Steve used the tip of his tongue to draw a straight line along the length as he moved his head back. He let go of Brock's cock only reluctantly, lips sucking at the tip, tongue playful over the skin, until he felt Brock tensing over the stimulation. 

"So," Steve started, looking up with Brock's cock still up in his face and with his lips still wet. "What else haven't you done in a while?" His eyes were calm but he focused on Brock with clear intent. Steve wanted sex. Period. 

"Steve," Brock said, paused then. He let go off the waistband and ran all ten fingers through his sweat stranded hair, pushing it all the way back. It showcased his broad shoulders and biceps, but it looked even sexier from where Steve was sitting back on his heels, filled-out wet cock over the folds of his boxers. Brock was worked up and Steve licked his lips to remind himself why. "Just-," Brock started, watching Steve through hooded eyes. "Just get on the bed. I'll fuck you, if you want that." 

The sudden outburst of courage was right up Steve's alley and he couldn't help a delighted grin. "Sounds like a solid plan," he said, the thought adding extra weight to his cock. 

Brock offered his hand, crooked smile on his face that Steve wouldn't mind seeing more often as he helped Steve back on his feet. Brock held onto his hand and pulled him in for another kiss. 

Just buttoning open his pants felt amazing, his cock savoring the extra room. Brock helped him undress, lifting his shirt and sliding his pants off by its cuffs. It strayed a little from the intimacy of sex into something else. Comfort, care, domesticity. Some people liked that, some just did it out of habit. 

It bored Steve, not simply because the gestures and languages of romantic attachment were foreign to him, but because, to him, there was always an element of laziness hiding behind the promise of comfort. He hoped it wasn't Brock's style but rather the fact that he was out of practice that made him this clumsy. 

"You got a condom and lube?" Steve asked, sitting at the edge of the bed. He drew in a knee to slide off his sock. The last thing he needed was Brock tugging gracelessly at its toe. 

"Yeah," Brock nodded. He glanced down to Steve's cock for a second before he moved past him to fumble with his bedside drawer. 

"Good," Steve said, laying back on the bed before turning over, canting his hips just a little to give his ass that extra curve. The sheets felt silky and clean and he circled his hips once, making sure his cock was positioned just right between his body and the mattress. He propped himself up on his elbows, giving Brock a smile to borrow some confidence from. "Are you going to help me out?" he added, stretching his body out on the bed. He could loosen himself, but the angle always sucked and he thought maybe Brock would appreciate the opportunity. 

He wasn't wrong. Brock's eyes traced Steve's body from the nape of his neck down the cleft of his ass to his parted thighs.

"You mean finger you?" Brock made sure they had the same understanding of 'helping out'. As much as Steve loathed clumsy movements, he appreciated verbal clarifications. No matter how inelegant they would sound to an onlooker. There simply were no stupid questions when it came to sex. They all mattered indistinguishably. 

"Yes," Steve confirmed. "I mean finger me." 

"You into that?" Brock asked, bottle of lube and pack of condoms all in one hand only. He used the other to point at Steve's ass. 

"I am," Steve just said, although necessity collided with proclivity here. "Is that a problem?" Steve didn't think it'd be surprising to anyone to find the one bottoming also enjoying a little anal play beforehand. Sure, fingers and dicks weren't technically the same thing, but they made good enough substitutes in sex. 

But Brock did seem surprised for a second, eyebrows raised, but then his expression lightened. "No. No problem," he said quickly. "'Course not." 

He dropped condoms and lube next to Steve's body and bend down to pull off his boots. Aside now from the shoes, Brock was still fully dressed, only with his hard cock out. It didn't make a difference to Steve.

He liked his own body and he liked his naked body best. And whether Brock was into that idea of power imbalance once more or whether he was insecure about his own frame, didn't particularly matter. Not now. Not tonight. Even with casual sex, a lot of things took time to figure out together. It was useless to aim for a perfect night on the first try. And Steve was just fine with that. 

Brock walked to the foot of the bed and, with a firm grip around one of Steve's ankles, moved his foot over to the side, parting his legs wider. It was more than enough space for him to fit his knees, shuffling until he was positioned right behind Steve's ass. 

Steve dropped gently from his elbows to the full length of his arms, his face hidden and his eyes closed. Ready to be touched. 

Brock leaned over Steve's body, rubbed the head of his cock over the crease between Steve's thigh and the curve of his ass, groaning as he did so. When he was done, he used his finger to spread the smeared precome and dig his finger into the muscle. "You got a nice ass for someone sitting in the cockpit all day," Brock said, palming Steve's other cheek now, as he sat back again. 

"I jog," Steve told him, although he couldn't remember the last time he wore his joggers outside his apartment or anywhere else aside from in front of his TV. 

Brock hummed, used both hands now to knead Steve's ass thoroughly, spreading his cheeks apart every now and then. He got more confident with the passing seconds and Steve's calm patience, so that he held him open only a short while later, just looking, inspecting Steve's hole for a long moment. If he was testing Steve for insecurity or if he was just mesmerized to a certain degree, Steve wasn't sure. Brock didn't say anything for those passing seconds. His breaths were steady and none of his fingers twitched at the sight. 

"I don't think I've ever seen a prettier hole." Brock's voice broke through the silence unexpectedly, and suddenly Steve felt the heat of his flushed skin all over his body like he hadn't in years. Decades even. The words shot straight into Steve's cock, painfully swollen against his stomach now. "It's almost-," Brock started again, broke off and brushed a dry thumb over Steve's rim. "It's almost too perfect." 

Steve's self-esteem was high enough that, although he greatly appreciated kind words and compliments, he wasn't in need of verbal reassurance from just anyone. Technically, Brock wasn't a _ someone _ in his life yet, not like Sam and Bucky, or Nat, but hearing Brock's praise did inexplicable things to Steve's body. 

On reflex, Steve pushed his hips back, curving his spine, to respond to the sudden surge of arousal. Of course, Brock stopped the aborted thrust with his hands on Steve, and he ended up presenting his ass, accidentally appearing more eager and shameless than he had planned. "That turning you on?" Brock asked, making all the wrong connections. "Hearing what a great ass you have? Being complimented on your asshole?" 

It did turn Steve on. 

But what it did to his head, what it did to his cock, was entirely too new to him, so he didn't think any yes or no answer would suffice. 

He felt as if his brain was being rewired and all words were temporarily unavailable during the process. 

Usually, it was him. The verbal one, the loud one, the talker. The one who spelled things out unabashed. Now he got his own ass handed to him, backseat got his name written on it. 

Without warning, Brock had swapped the ungraceful questions and clumsy moves for bold confidence. And it was undeniably hot. 

He added barely any pressure to Steve's rim, but Steve wanted this, had played with the thought all evening, and his body showed. The muscle gave way at the surface, rim parting just for that illusion of pliability. 

It felt nice. Everything that made sex easier felt nice. A tense body could ruin the mood in ways few other things could. That's why Steve put so much effort into appearing approachable. Into open, casual communication. Into a good atmosphere. 

Brock huffed, a quiet satisfied laugh. "Only you wouldn't need lube to get fucked," he said. Steve was about to open his mouth, though he still didn't seem able to recall any words, wanting just to make sure that Brock was joking when Brock moved his thumb off him anyway. "I don't want to be the one ruining that good look for you though." 

He reached for the lube as Steve shook his head over his own unreasonable worries. Maybe Brock hadn't done this in a while, but that didn't mean he was reckless. Or rude. It was a game, nothing more. Just words to get Steve all worked up. And with the way his cock ached beneath him, there was no doubt even to Steve that he knew how to play well. 

All there was to do now was to lay back, enjoy the ride and soak up every second of this experience. There was time to figure out the details later. He knew himself well enough that he didn't have to worry about accidentally taking things too far. 

From what Steve could catch with his shoulder in the way, Brock lubed up a couple of fingers first, but then he dribbled a generous amount down the cleft of Steve's ass as well. Steve buried his face between sheets and the side of his armpit. This was going to be wet and messy just how he liked it. 

Slowly, Brock slid a fingertip from the small of Steve's back right between his cheeks until he caught his rim and pushed with very little force. 

Steve moaned at the small stretch, the wet finger gliding into his body with ease, nerve endings jolting awake with the pressure of the intrusion. 

"Went right into that pretty entrance of yours," Brock commented and pulled his finger back out immediately. 

Steve hummed, liked how easy things were going. It wasn't always like this, but it was a testament to the trust they were able to establish between them. Maybe Brock wasn't as laid-back or easy-going as Steve, but he gave off genuinely good vibes that Steve was always looking for in the bedroom. 

Brock circled along the edges of Steve's rim with the tip of his thumb, tugged on the wet and slippery skin. "You really like being played with, don't you?" 

Steve didn't know if he was expected to reply anymore even. He usually wasn't particularly into dirty talk, but he wouldn't judge if Brock was. Wouldn't ask of him to hold back. It didn't matter if Brock did this primarily for Steve or himself as it was clear that both of them were into it to some degree. 

Brock added another fairly wasteful amount of lube before he sank two of his fingers into Steve in one go. It didn't take much effort to adjust, Steve didn't really have any other option, not with how slick he was, Brock's fingers sliding deep in one relentless go. 

And not a second later, pleasure formed around the sudden intrusion. The stretch running up Steve's spine with the need for more, a proper fill or a rougher fuck. 

"This feel good?" Brock asked, voice surprisingly soft. He drew his fingers back only to drive them in again right away. He grazed over Steve's prostate on his way in causing his body to jerk with the intensity of the touch. 

"Shit," Steve forced through gritted teeth. Good was an understatement. "Feels alright, yeah," he stammered though under heavy breaths. 

Jokingly understating in return. Mostly because he was an idiot, relentlessly fighting even his own awkward moments without a second thought. Maybe it was a pride thing. Or his distaste for his own speechlessness. Maybe part of him wanted to rile up Brock. Didn't want to admit just what his fingers did to him. His cock was either leaking a ridiculously amount of precome or he was sweating like a true sportsman now. Either way, he didn't want Brock to have the upper hand. Maybe he was into power play after all. 

"How about-," Brock started, pulling his fingers out to the tips before prodding Steve's rim with a third. "Now?" he asked and then pushed forward, any resistance be damned. 

There was none. Steve relaxed on instinct, knowing just how to protect himself in cases of impatient insertions. 

On top of that, Steve's body was craving the touch. Everywhere. Skin shivering with anticipation, but he craved it even more so on the inside. He moved back until he was up on his knees, rocked back and forth desperately, without leverage or intent, fucking himself on Brock's fingers, his hard dick bouncing with urgency. 

Brock curled his finger, carving out endless trails inside of Steve, probing until he could put pressure on Steve's prostate again, just whenever he felt like messing with him. 

"Yeah," Steve breathed finally. "Better." He tried to keep his cool, but then couldn't force down the moan falling from his mouth as Brock splayed his fingers, stretching Steve wider than his usual routine. Wider than Brock's cock. Wider than necessary. 

"Fuck," Steve groaned, twisting the sheets beneath him. He wanted more and less simultaneously, body freezing with indecision. 

Brock pulled his hand back like that, fingers spread inside Steve, and Steve moved back with him on instinct, trying to protect his rim from a more painful stretch. Chest on the bed, ass up in the air, suddenly positioned obscenely for unlimited access. 

"You want me to fuck you, Steve?" Brock asked, prompted by Steve basically shoving his ass into his face. 

Steve may be a little out of control, but he wasn't going to beg. "That was the plan," he forced out. It cost him all of his self control to not turn into a puddle of pleads instead. 

"Just a second," Brock said and continued to ease his fingers out. He kept them apart, watching Steve's rim drag over their lengths, stretching wider and wider as he freed his second knuckles. 

"Brock," Steve started, panting by now. The skin of his rim felt dangerously taut and he had to use up all his concentration to relax the strained muscles. 

"Don't worry, I got you," Brock assured him, but that didn't mean he went easier on Steve's ass. Instead he pushed back in, granting Steve's body a moment of remission, but then simply twisted his hand and pulled back on a different angle. "I got what you need." 

"Fuck," Steve cursed, breathing through his tensing body. "Too much," he admitted when his rim had reached Brock's knuckles again. 

"It's okay," Brock said. "You're fine." It wasn't the answer Steve had expected. It wasn't an answer that could have ever, in a hundred years, occurred to him. 

Sure he was fine, but he wasn't _ fine fine_. 

"You'll just walk it off later," Brock went on, "You're not even looking a little sore yet." With his thumb he felt alongside Steve's rim from the outside, but Steve didn't know what for. What it had to do with anything. Muscles and skin weren't the same fucking thing. "Don't worry," Brock said, before Steve had a chance to argue and flicked the stretched edge of Steve's rim with a thumb. "I don't mind this." 

Steve's brain seemed to simply shut down with the confusion of what was happening, sensitive skin prickling and stinging still from Brock thumbing his rim like a fucking guitar. Steve's mouth hung open as he tried to put the conversation back together, stared at his own hands tangled up in the sheets. Unable to focus on anything else. 

And then Brock pried his fingers free in one go, too fast for Steve's body to react, too fast for him to verbally object, to even register what was happening. 

The shock numbed any piercing pain and the stinging ache only reached him a second later. But by then it was already being washed away by the feeling of sudden emptiness, every pore of his body grieving the loss. Steve was startled by his own pitiful whine, he couldn't process the wave of emotions at once. 

"Wasn't too much now, was it?" Brock asked as he poked and tapped his fingers against the surrendered rim to see if it would twitch around him. Steve held still, checking in with his body. "Yeah, didn't think so," Brock said, answering his own question before Steve could. "You don't have to lie to me, Steve," Brock added, "I understand." 

Steve's hole was wet and slack, and so was Steve's face, neither his mouth nor his ass able to produce an appropriate response to either Brock's question or his continuous prodding. 

Maybe he had been too cautious, slowing things down unnecessarily. 

"Poor thing," Brock said with Steve still in his thoughts. If only to Steve's worn out hole or Steve overall wasn't clear. Very little was clear to Steve at that moment until Brock stuck his fingers deliciously deep into Steve and dragged them back out tantalizingly slow, feeling along the walls on the inside. "Didn't think I would ever say this," Brock started, tone gentle. "But I could do this all day." 

A sentiment that Steve shared, disagreements behind them. He moved off Steve's ass nonetheless and placed a hand on the small of Steve's back instead, palm sticky and hot, and rubbed circles into the skin with his thumb. 

"You're really something else, Steve," Brock said, generously stroking over the lengths of Steve's back. "You're really special." 

Steve leaned into the touch, every inch of his body twice as sensitive as before. Twice as ready for the main course. 

"Stay like this, alright?" Brock told him, "I'm just going to roll on a condom." They were definitely on the same page now. Had been the whole time. Steve just needed to get a bit more attuned to the way Brock went about sex. That was all. 

When Brock's hand was gone, Steve's skin burned with the echo of his touch. And despite Brock's request, Steve shifted his weight to catch a glimpse of his cock, this poor thing angry red and glistering wet, desperately yearning for attention. 

"Guess, this is just going to be a walk in the park for you," Brock said, suddenly back behind Steve, naked except for the condom and a silver necklace around his neck. He lined himself up and only then Steve's brain put the pieces together. That after having been stretched over three fingers, with space for one more between them, he'd easily take Brock's cock. It was true, but size didn't really matter to Steve. What mattered were skills. "Haven't changed your mind, have you?" Brock asked, continuing being a gentleman. 

Steve peeked between his legs once more, before he grasped at the sheets at the head of the bed, leaning into his position while taking pressure off his shoulders. "I'm good," he assured Brock and braced himself for a first thrust. 

But Brock sank into him slowly, suspiciously quiet for a guy that hadn't fucked anyone in a while as he entered Steve all the way. What Brock held back, Steve didn't bother to keep in. He moaned, satisfied with stretch and pace and just the blissful feeling of having something up his ass again. He was all strapped in for a good ride and ready to go. Next stop, sweet spot. He bit his lips in anticipation. 

Brock shifted on his knees, adjusting his position. And when he fucked into Steve's loosened hole a couple of times, he always changed the angle. Either to find Steve's prostate again or to avoid it. Steve couldn't figure it out. Maybe it was intentional, maybe he wanted Steve to last longer. Maybe it happened by accident in an attempt to make himself last beyond the initial sprint. It was difficult to tell, so Steve decided he was going to give Brock time to find his own pace before reciting annoying instructions on how to properly handle his ass. 

Brock fucked him a couple of minutes longer with very little finesse, almost completely disengaged compared to how enthusiastically he had used his fingers before. 

"Hold on," Brock said then, and Steve worried he would call this off mid-fuck. Brock started to ease his cock back, but, to Steve's relief, only pulled out halfway, then stilled. 

Steve prepared himself for some rougher thrusts, for more force and impatience, but instead something else touched his rim where Brock's cock had been driving into his body, massaging the skin gently. "Can I?" Brock asked and Steve nodded. He didn't mind being touched while he was fucked. "Okay," Brock almost sighed. "I'll help you out," he added, and then, without another pause for consideration, he pushed his finger into Steve alongside his own cock. 

Steve gasped for air as Brock groaned, the sudden pressure rippling through his body, his ass trying to accommodate too much of Brock's body.

All of Steve's attention was forced back on his stretched hole, his body desperate to ease resistance through power of will. 

"Yeah, that's good," Brock said, pressing sloppy kisses onto Steve's back. In reality the jury was still out on whether it was good or not. "Much better for both of us, right?" Brock insisted, and when he started pushing his hips forward, his thrusts less robotic this time, Steve found himself ready to agree. "So much better," Brock said again. 

Steve whined, didn't know if he could take it for long. "Yeah, you needed this, too," Brock said, tone flooding with tender understanding. " Still perfect, Steve. you're still so fucking perfect," he praised. "Don't worry, we're gonna make this work." 

Steve was sweating, panting and rocking back and forth with Brock's thrusts, unable to regain full control of his body. He wanted to make this work too. Wanted to do his part. So although he felt helplessly impaled, and although he couldn't say with certainty whether he really liked this or whether his cock was leaking somewhat steady now from the stress, he tried to actively open his body up for Brock. 

"Want you to feel it too," Brock said, graveled voice, as he put his mouth back onto the side of Steve's back. "Make you feel good." He ran his free hand all over Steve's side and even up to his chest. And just like that, Steve's body went pliant all over and Brock's words turned into truths. 

He was feeling good. Better than good. 

He was feeling full and well fucked, and even thankful in a messed up way, that someone, Brock, had taken his body and used it in ways no one had before, showing Steve the hidden treasures of his own capabilities. Allowing Steve to discover more of himself. 

"Don't touch yourself yet," Brock said, reaching all the way down to Steve's neck to hold him in place, pressed into the bed. Steve snorted, he hadn't planned in touching himself anyway, but it turned into a moan when Brock delivered a particularly hard thrust. Fucking Steve's capacity to even think about touching himself right out of him. 

Brock delivered a couple more, then pulled out all the way, hands going to Steve's asscheeks immediately, pulling them further apart. 

"No," Steve rushed out, whined at the loss. All that delicious stimulation torn from his insides. 

"It's just to-," Brock started, then pushed a thumb back into Steve, playing with the leftover lube. "Poor thing," he said again, putting sudden pressure on Steve's rim a couple of times before he swapped the thicker thumb for a long prodding index finger. He slipped it in deep, as far as it would go, third knuckle pressing against Steve's rim, then wiggled it a little while Steve squirmed in a hazy bliss at the sensation. 

Brock chuckled. "You still feel that?" he asked, doing it again. Steve writhed, cock jerking helplessly between his legs. Why wouldn't he feel it. "You're cute," Brock said and placed another kiss on the small of Steve's back. He pulled his finger back and hooked the tip of his thumb over the rim instead, tugging until he could cradle Steve's balls lightly with his other fingers. 

Then the head of his cock was lined back up against Steve's hole, right above his thumb, sinking slowly into Steve again, stretching him beyond what Steve had thought he could take or would enjoy taking. But still did in that moment. Did when it was Brock who distracted him by playing with his balls. 

Brock groaned as if he had just discovered what heaven felt like and Steve's ego blossomed at the sound of it. "Fucking unreal," Brock muttered. His tone made Steve shudder, but his praise made Steve bathe in an odd feeling of self-satisfaction. He really, really, liked to be the guy that ruined Brock Rumlow. So he bit his lips and relaxed further into the stretch. 

"Play with yourself a little," Brock told him, but Steve was only paying attention to the rhythm of the slow powerful thrusts of Brock's hips. And how he had started to push his thumb forward whenever his cock pulled out, head almost breaching Steve's rim again, and how he wiggled the fingertip whenever he pushed back in. There was no second left for Steve to gather some composure through the constant stimulation, but it felt torturously good. 

"Steve, hey," Brock called, so gently it caused Steve to turn his head in confusion. "Come on, play with yourself a little," Brock urged him on again. "Show me what you like." 

Steve appreciated the sentiment, yet he had never felt less knowledgeable of what he liked as he reached for his cock with uncoordinated movements. His hand was a little shaky, but he managed to get it between his legs, bracing his body on the one arm he had left. Steve almost jerked as his fingers reached his needy cock, bumping into Brock's fingers on his balls who squeezed them lightly in return. He cursed, feeling oversensitive from literally nothing but his stuffed hole and Brock's words. 

"Does a guy like you even need to rub one out?" Brock asked, but he didn't give Steve any time to answer. "Bet you get fucked so much, it's become less of a thing." 

Maybe Steve had a lot of options with how he looked, but the truth was, sometimes he just liked doing it with himself. Preferred it even. Indulging himself with no one else to worry, to think about. No one else but him to satisfy. He liked it a lot, to be honest. With what Brock did to his ass though, maybe it had just become his second favorite way to get off. 

It was the combination of his own touch and Brock working him on the inside that took him into a different sphere completely. "Am close," Steve warned. 

"I know," Brock said quietly. "God, Steve," he added, his voice too loud for how quiet they'd been just a second ago. "I could fuck you forever, you know that?" He braced himself with a hand on Steve's hipbone and then started thrusting back in, his rhythm strong and merciless, working Steve over with his entire body. Fucking him relentlessly. He pulled Steve back every other second by his hipbone and the fingers by his balls, forcing Steve to meet his thrusts. "Need you to close up just a little," he breathed. "Can you do that for me?" 

It wasn't something to comprehend easily, not when Steve was actually grateful for all the effort Brock had put into stretching him over more than his cock before. Being this loose eased the way for Brock, made his thrust more than just bearable, turned them into tender strokes instead. Steve was relaxed and blissed out and he could focus just on the pressure Brocks cock caused hitting his prostate. He didn't have to concentrate on keeping his muscle slack and welcoming. 

Steve tried clenching just a little, but it felt wrong and forced, and he liked it better when Brock didn't have to fight his way through a tensed muscle. 

Brock still groaned over Steve's pathetic attempt. "Yeah, almost there," he said. "Just like that. Just one more time," Brock added, almost pleaded. "Really need to feel you." 

His words did things to Steve again. He wanted Brock to feel him. Wanted to give him what he needed. 

He clenched around Brock's cock with more intent now, trying to catch him at just the right moment, when the wider head had already passed the muscles, avoiding the pain of resisting the intrusion. 

"You're teasing me," Brock said, he sounded as if he was smiling. He draped himself halfway over Steve's back, mouth wet against Steve's skin. He wasn't a bad guy, he just liked sex the way he liked it. Steve wasn't any different. Brock placed more kisses along Steve's spine before he let his forehead rest against Steve's back, his breaths hot on the skin. "Can't get enough of you already." 

Not knowing what to say, and because now he wanted to make up for how little he had tried before, Steve clenched down as hard as he could, trying to make Brock feel it all. Make him feel how much Steve wanted this too. 

"Jesus," Brock blurted. "Next time warn a guy first," he said but moaned shamelessly when Steve did it again. Brock started to set back up a rhythm, and Steve forced his body to stay tight around him, despite the fact that it hurt a little whenever Brock pulled out all the way to get more friction around the tip of his cock. 

It was distinctly more effort to control his body like this than just being fucked, so it didn't take too long for Steve to become sweaty all over and for his posture to become a little unstable. To Brock behind him, lost in the haze in chasing his own pleasure, Steve must have looked just as desperate to find his own release. And not at all like a guy who had just surrendered to taking it. Cock starting to soften, bouncing helplessly off his body and against the sack of his balls. 

"Feels so good," Brock told him, and Steve pretended he could say the same. "Feels so fucking good. Gonna come so soon." 

Knowing that Brock was close, gave Steve just the right nudge to try even harder. Do even better. Get it over with. 

"Fuck," Brock cursed, making Steve proud. He yanked Steve back on his cock and for a second Steve thought it was over. But then Brock's hand slipped from Steve's hips back to his cheek, pulling it to the side; a move so painfully familiar by now. 

"No," the world just fell out of Steve's mouth. He was tired. He was exhausted. His body was sore and he just wanted Brock to come already. 

"It's alright, you can trust me," Brock tried to calm him immediately. His voice was sweet and soothing. "I know you tried." He tightened his fingers around Steve's balls again, seriously now to a point where Steve's eyes watered from the pain. Brock groaned a second later, letting go of Steve's ass to resume his thrusts. Steve still wanted him to finish, wanted to make him come, but there were a lot of mixed signals that his body couldn't handle. His cock soft all the way now, but Brock didn't ease up. And Steve didn't say anything about it. 

"Come with me, okay? Want you to come with me," Brock said, somehow unaware that Steve was so far from coming, he couldn't even imagine it. 

Brock, however, was so close that he couldn't imagine anything else. "You're a fucking blessing," he praised Steve again and it helped mend his disappointment a little. "You have no idea what you do to me." To make things move along even faster, Steve started to meet Brock's thrust on his own. Dragging the clenched, aching rim back and forth over finger and cock. "You're gonna make me come so hard," Brock rambled on, almost enthusiastically now while Steve held his breath. "Wish we'd done this earlier. Wish you hadn't been such a goddamn slut before me." 


	3. Chapter 3

Steve faltered in shock, body falling forward, mouth open in disbelief yet unable to protest. Behind him, Brock pulled his finger out but hauled Steve back by his hips. For those final thrusts. Everything slipping out of control. Brock pushed Steve forward when he came, punching a groan out of Steve as he forced him down with his full weight. Pushed forward into him until he lay flat on the bed, pushed forward even then, trying to bury himself deep within Steve. Pushed his cock as deep as it would go.

Steve turned away from Brock, trying to catch a sane thought, trying to catch a steady breath. He was panting. Not from any relief, but because he couldn't get enough air otherwise. 

Brock kissed his shoulders, the back of his neck, laughing softly in his bliss, and grazed his nails over Steve's sweaty skin. "I'll be right back," he said, so considerate and kind, that Steve entertained the thought that he had misheard what Brock had said just seconds ago. 

Slowly, Brock eased his cock out of Steve, careful as to not lose the condom. But Steve was open and tired anyway, the skin around his muscles were sore and he didn't want to pretend otherwise anymore. He just couldn't block it out. Those words. Couldn't recall now why he had tried to please Brock at all costs. 

Brock tied up the condom and wrapped it into a tissue before crawling back into bed immediately, seeking the warmth of Steve's body. He started kissing him again, stroking his back and holding him. 

Steve didn't react, he was still caught up in what had just happened. In the way he had just been fucked, body and mind alike, and the fact that he didn't even come. 

"Look at me," Brock said quietly, when Steve lay there too still. It wasn't technically a question but Brock sounded so hesitant that Steve heard it as such. 

Somewhat reluctantly, held back by his own confusion, Steve turned his head to face him. When Brock smiled at him, Steve recognized the guy he had been so hopelessly attracted to most days on his way to work. "You're the best," Brock told him and leaned in to place a gentle kiss on Steve's lips. 

Steve didn't mind post-sex tenderness, didn't mind spending those quiet moments together. It was a fine line though, issues developing easy enough and all too often when physical intimacy blurred into romantic fantasies. 

But Steve's thoughts were still messy and his head seemed too small for them, so he didn't bother worrying about that. Not for now at least. 

Brock settled his head on his elbow, content with just studying Steve's face for a moment. "Didn't think the night would end with you here," he told Steve, voice still quiet and intimate. "Bit of a surprise, the two of us, no?"

Steve shrugged. It wasn't really, considering he had subtly lusted after Brock for more than two years now. It wasn't surprising because Steve liked Brock. Had always liked seeing he had a shift when Steve was scheduled to take off. It was nice seeing him around. 

Maybe Brock had wanted this to happen sooner, didn't like that Steve had been with other people first and Brock only now. Maybe that was what he had tried to hint at with his comment.

The comment Steve was trying to forget. Convince himself it hadn't been spoken at all. It was Steve's head making things up. It was Steve not paying attention and mixing up words. It was Steve not hearing as good as he used to. 

He ignored the fact that he was well capable to make out any muffled and mumbled commands from towers. All over the world, at all times, in all sorts of accents. Despite the noise of the plane and Sam talking beside him. 

It was Brock. And Steve didn't want it to be true. Sometimes the benefit of the doubt was turning a blind eye to the fact that there was no doubt at all.

"At first, I didn't even want to go to the party," Brock started, fingers grazing over the side of Steve's neck. "I don't really know Wilson. Or any of the pilots really. But Rollins convinced me to come," he laughed, brushed his thumb over Steve's temple. "I'm glad I did though. Don't care anymore that the idiot didn't even show." He leaned in for another kiss. Steve expected it to be short and sweet too, but Brock let his lips linger and the tip of his tongue parted Steve's who let him despite his preferences. Whatever had slipped from Brock's earlier couldn't have been meanspirited. It was the sex that had them riled up. It was all that dirty talk that went into the wrong direction. Steve couldn't blame him and he never bothered with holding grudges.

Brock kissed him deeper and Steve let it happen. Let Brock take charge. Maybe this was his way to apologize. Maybe he was scared or embarrassed to explain what happened there, and so this was his way to make up for a stupid mistake. 

It didn't matter now that Steve hadn't come. This was okay and the sex had been good. Really fucking good at some point. All they needed was a little more time and practice to get compatible. Technically, it was Steve's fault anyway. He could have said something, let Brock know. But he hadn't. It wasn't Brock's fault that Steve had kept his flagging erection to himself. 

"You okay?" Brock asked. He used a finger to soothe Steve's brow. "You're quiet."

"I'm fine," Steve said automatically. "I'm okay," he added to make his answer more genuine. He didn't want to talk though, he didn't need to be comforted. Nothing happened. 

So, Steve leaned in again, this time dipping his own tongue between Brock's lips. Kissing how he liked it best. Doing this for himself.

"You've worn me out," he said, eyes still closed and with Brock's taste still on his lips. 

"Me?" Brock asked, smiling again as Steve opened his eyes. He traced a vein on Steve's neck with a gentle finger. "Pretty sure it was the other way around." 

He ducked his head down to run the tip of his nose along the side of Steve's neck, before he kissed him there. Steve would have hated the casual affection, too close to something romantic, but given what hadn't happened before, Steve felt his blood rush down to his cock instead. 

"Love this aftershave," Brock said, lips grazing over Steve's throat. "You smell good all over." He nudged Steve onto his side, so he could lick down to Steve's collarbone, nose pressed against the skin before he noticed Steve's filling erection just a second later.

"Again?" Brock asked, he still had no idea that Steve hadn't managed to finish earlier. "I think I need another minute," he said almost embarrassed. Placed a kiss on the corner of Steve's mouth. "Should have warned you that I wasn't even in my thirties anymore."

"Pretty sure you did," Steve said with a smile. He thought about asking him to swap, but then Brock moved down his back again, with a strong broad palm, destination obvious. And Steve bit his lip instead. 

"I love your skin," Brock almost whispered, and Steve found himself smiling even wider. It wasn't a compliment that he heard often and it was the first time it was from another man.

Brock kissed his shoulder again, this time using his tongue too, tasting the skin and he ran his hands back up. He made space for Steve to just roll back onto his front and started to bite the skin gently, sucked playfully on a few different spots, but it was clear that he didn't want to leave any bruises.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, lips against Steve's skin. Steve didn't mind the passing time. He was hard, but the urgency from earlier had worn off. He liked being touched. And he liked being explored like this. There was no need to rush. 

"Don't worry about it," Steve told him. Meant every word. 

Brock's hand wandered from the small of Steve's back over his ass, and this time down to the middle of his thigh. He hummed as he did so, enjoying the way Steve was spread out for him still, skin soft and sensitive. He ran it back up a second later, grabbed Steve's cheek a little tighter on his way up and pulled it aside. 

Steve squirmed a little, not necessarily in general anticipation, not like before, but because he hoped maybe Brock would be curious enough to go down on him. Eat him out before fucking him again. 

Brock, however, seemed content with just massaging the muscles of Steve's ass. One side at first and then the other. Brock's preference was pretty obvious now and Steve let the idea of switching slide altogether. It didn't matter. Not tonight. Steve was open and somewhat wet already and there was no use to waste a thorough prep over principle.

Brock let two fingers slide down the cleft and pushed them gently between Steve's cheeks. There wasn't much lube left, so instead of pushing in, Brock just ran his fingers over the rim, playing with the skin. Brock's cock was resting against the side of Steve's thigh. It was still soft but Steve could already feel it stir, while his own started leaking again.

Steve reminded himself to be patient. To not be rude and rush things. No one needed extra pressure if they've already admitted to a longer refractory period. Steve understood and so he closed his eyes and tried to focus on Brock's touch instead.

"Twice in one night, huh?" Brock mumbled, voice low as if he was talking about something forbidden. Something shameful and worth of regrets. Steve held his breath and his body still. Brock's attitude toward sex wasn't surprising, but it cut deep into Steve after what had happened. 

And then Steve wondered how much experience Brock actually had. He was a little older than Steve, but that didn't mean anything. It was more difficult for guys in security to come out and pursue other men openly without any repercussions. He could only imagine how difficult it must be for someone who still thought of sex to be sinful. 

"If you want to," Steve said, trying to gently move things along. He felt bad then. For Brock. Felt bad that Brock's delicate situation hadn't occurred to him earlier. It would certainly explain a lot of his odd behavior. "We don't have to," he added out of reflex.

He hadn't paid any attention to Brock's touch, had been distracted by his running thoughts, when Brock placed one tip right at the center of his rim. Then tugged the skin to any random direction, sometimes a little to far for Steve's liking, sometimes a little too light. 

"This a joke?" Brock asked, coming all the way up to kiss Steve on the lips. "Of course, I want to. Just don't want to wear you out completely. You have work tomorrow?" 

Steve shook his head. He rolled his hips forward a little, the silky sheets cool against his heated skin.

"Good," Brock said, voice as hungry as Steve's cock. "Wouldn't want you to have any accidents in the cockpit."

Steve laughed. A rough night had never compromised his ability to fly. He wasn't reckless and he would never risk incidents just for sex. He had never not been well rested and sober when he'd put on his uniform. When it came down to it, he would always pick flying over fucking. 

Brock placed more kisses all over Steve's back and drew his tongue all the way down Steve's spine, biting the curve of Steve's ass on one side. 

"Don't move, okay?" he added, but didn't wait for an answer. He got out of bed immediately to retrieve the bottle of lube and another condom.

Steve let his head sink deep into the pillow for a second. He was getting tired of the kisses. It itched him to touch himself just to get the edge off, but at the same time, he didn't want to risk pushing himself further towards it instead. He realized tonight, more than others, how much he hated first times. It had been a while since he had to get used to someone new. 

The anticipation and build-up usually gave him a thrill, but then the actual sex so often fell flat. That's why he liked to stick to certain people, why he took his sexual relationships as serious as his friendships. As serious as business relationships. 

This was technically going to be their second time, so Steve held out hope. Wouldn't allow his mood to go south. 

Brock was back just a moment later, dick fully hard, and a smile on his face. He squeezed a little bit of lube onto the tip of his thumb and then brought it over to Steve's hole, hesitating.

"It's okay," Steve assured him. He really wanted to come tonight. He wanted to see this through. With Brock. "I want it," he assured him again. "I can take it."

Brock didn't need to be told twice, just a beat later he started pressing right in. He let his thumb sink in all the way, slid it back and forth until Steve moaned at how good it felt. 

"Just tighten up for me again," Brock told him. It wasn't what Steve wanted. It wasn't what Steve needed. "Love feeling you close up around anything I give you." Brock ran the fingernails of his other hand gently over Steve's back, racing the shivers that he caused up and down. "Come on, Steve. Do you want my cock or not? Show me how much, alright? Show me how well you'll take care of it." 

There'd still be time for what Steve needed later. Steve clenched around him, although his muscle was tired. His dick wasn't and although Steve had his hesitations, it reacted to Brock's words immediately. So he squeezed around Brock's thumb as best as he could, trying to set a rhythm that was tight enough and wasn't too slow.

"You're getting so good at this," Brock told him, stroking the small of Steve's back. "You make me want you so much right now," he said and placed a kiss just above Steve's ass. "Want you to come from my cock again. Make you feel it."

Steve bit his lip over the fact that he hadn't come before. The moment to tell had been long gone. So why not cling to the idea that, when he would come this time, it would be so much better for it. Sometimes patience was key. Edging wasn't a thing for nothing.

"Hold it tight, Steve," Brock said as he eased his thumb back out of Steve's sore hole slowly. He kissed Steve on both cheeks, then fumbled with the wrapping for a second but eventually rolled one condom snug over the length of his cock. 

Brock settled next to Steve, spooning him. "Come here," he said, pulling him into his arms. "Like this." He kissed Steve again on the shoulder before helping him roll over onto his side. Almost immediately, the tip of Brock's hard cock nudged against Steve's rim. 

"You think you can make me come like this?" Brock asked, but the teasing tone told Steve it wasn't really a question. He pushed in slowly and all the way, until Steve's back was flush against his chest, and their hips aligned. He reached around Steve's body and Steve had to fist the sheets in front of his body to keep from coming then when Brock's fingers were on him, starting to stroke his cock gently. "Just want to do this for a while."

"Fuck," Steve moaned. He's always had a thing for Brock's hands, had thrown hidden glances during every security check. Yet Brock's hand on his cock now felt strange. Somewhere between dreams and reality. Somewhere between heaven and hell. "A while?" he asked and laughed. "Don't think I can last a while."

"This feels good, yeah?" Brock asked, lips brushing over Steve's ear. "You know what you can do to earn it," he added, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that it meant squeezing his cock as if his life depended on it. 

Brock rewarded Steve's effort with gentle attention to his cock. A stroke, a light squeeze, sometimes his thumb over the slit. Pressing lightly or rubbing through the precome. Never too much, never too little either. Yet, Steve needed more. Craved a different kind of touch.

"You're making me proud," Brock told him, showed him how much with a stronger grip. It was a torturous exchange, but Steve was hard and leaking, his body responding a little too well to the conditioning. "You're really working for it.

Steve was desperate for Brock to keep talking by now, couldn't deny that he liked the verbal assurance. He didn't know where the need came from. What deeply seated insecurity made itself known just now. He didn't want to know. 

"There you go," Brock said, carding the fingers of his other hand through Steve's hair. "You got a talent for this. You don't have to go on ruining yourself over it. You're more special than that." 

"No," Steve breathed. None of it was true. None of it mattered. None of it was Brock Rumlow's fucking business.

"You are, Steve," Brock stressed. "You are more special than that," he assured Steve again. "I wouldn't be fucking you for the second time if you weren't." 

Steve thought about elbowing him in the ribs, when Brock pulled Steve even closer to his body, deeper onto his cock so that all there was left to do was to moan in defeat.

"Play with your nipple," he said gently, stroking the full length of Steve's cock with a firm grip. "I wanna see what you like there too."

Steve's hips jerked at the sudden rhythm of Brock's hand, but the touch felt so good that he complied. He brought a hand up to his chest, finger brushing over the nub before he tugged on it lightly, and squeezed it then. Somehow he hoped that whatever he did there would translate into whatever Brock did to his cock. It didn't.

"A little tighter, Steve," Brock told him, and Steve complied by squeezing his nipples a little harder. "Almost there," Brock added. Steve had no idea where they were heading. 

But he didn't particularly care anymore to take the reins either. He couldn't make sense of this night even if he tried. He'd figure it out later. Figure Brock out later.

"Suck on my cock like you did earlier with that other hole of yours," Brock breathed into his ear, and Steve shivered and groaned. He knew better than to judge himself for it. Fantasies were fantasies. And Brock's verbal objectifications were nothing but fantasies. 

His cock twitched in Brock's hand, who gave it a delighted squeeze. Steve wasn't immune to dirty talk at all. He was starting to sweat from it, from working just that one muscle. 

"It's good training for you," Brock said, circling his hips a little to motivate Steve further. 

It was a dumb game and hard work all the same. At any other day, Steve would have argued that it was only fair. Fair for the one topping not having to exhaust himself twice in one night. But it didn't feel fair. It felt as if Steve was exhausting himself for the second time that night.

"You're getting distracted, Steve," Brock warned, aborted thrust reminding Steve that sex wasn't just all about him. "This all you got?"

Steve didn't really register the remark until Brock's hand was gone from his cock and Steve whined with the loss again. Almost annoyed, Brock fumbled Steve's balls out of the way and then dug the pad of his thumb into the flesh behind them, while rutting against Steve. It didn't feel good.

"Just fuck me again," Steve decided then, he was done with the games. Done with the slow burn of the night. "Like before." He couldn't wait any longer. He needed to come and it would only be fair to give Brock a good chance to finish as well. 

"You sure?" Brock asked, breathless and hips stuttering as he buried his cock as far up Steve's body as possible. 

"Yeah, just let me roll over," Steve said. He didn't want to trap Brock's arm under his body.

Brock moved his hands off Steve and let him spread out chest down on the bed again. The sheets tangled up around Steve's cock just right that he skipped shifting onto his knees and waited for Brock to fuck him flat on the mattress. 

Just like before _ ,  _ Brock moved his body between Steve's legs, but instead of just pressing his cock back in, as Steve had thought, he inserted two fingers into Steve's wet hole, splayed them wide.

"Brock," Steve started but then the fingers dragged so deliciously over Steve's prostate, rebooting his thought process. 

"I got you," Brock just said, lined up the tip of his cock in the v of his fingers, right between the two knuckles. "I'll help you. Just like before." And then he pushed in.

"Oh God," Steve whined, but he had worked the muscles of his rim into some state of exhaustion that he hadn't known before, and combined with the way Brock had stuffed him earlier with all the different parts his body had to offer, Steve's ass adjusted just fine to the merciless stretch. In fact, he began to enjoy it. 

He rocked back as best as he could and steadied his hips so that Brock's thrust would be met with some resistance, instead of simply pushing Steve further into the mattress. And he moaned, shamelessly, when Brock's cock hit the right spot, friction from the sheet just enough to get him closer and closer to his own release. 

"This good?" Brock asked, panting heavily as he fucked Steve with a variety of hard thrusts and slower movements that made Steve feel every inch of his cock. 

"Yeah," Steve choked out, his voice breaking with a rough thrust. "Just-," words turning into moans, moans that were punched right out of him. "Keep going," he told him, his hands grasping for anything within reach.

Brock forced his cock back and forth alongside his fingers, aiming for Steve's prostate who jerked with the pressure and the bliss. 

"Don't stop," Steve told him, he was getting so close. 

"Steve," Brock started, voice distorted from rough breaths and with how close he was to getting to his own climax. "Steve," he forced out, "you and your goddamn ass. I swear you'll be the end of me." 

He pushed Steve down with his free hand, held him still with the weight of his body. Then he pulled his fingers from Steve's ass, digging his fingers between Steve's legs, behind his sack and beneath his hole, squeezing tight and somehow causing the pressure on Steve's prostate to skyrocket, pleasure and pain blurring at once into something else entirely.

Steve came in a rough shock, eyes shut so tight, he felt tears run down his cheeks, mind going blank, then right into the tip of his cock, drenching the sheets in tense waves. His chest tightened from the force, silenced empty pants burning in his throat. Brock fucked him through it, relentless in his steady rhythm until Steve mewled, writhing helplessly under Brock's weight, his body trying to force him out, and cried out from the pain of overstimulation. 

There was silence all around Steve, only his own yelping breaths so loud in his ears, when Brock moaned, low and deep and long, and then spilled into the condom, buried still in Steve's resisting body. "Jesus, Steve," he groaned, but Steve felt like he'd missed something. The one crucial piece to make sense of all of it. "You squirming like that is a gift to this world." Brock laughed, breathless too, satisfaction spreading visibly through his body, as he eased off Steve and pulled out carefully. "You okay?" he asked right after, tying the condom with shaky fingers. Steve had never seen him shaking before.

"Have I told you that you're a fucking masterpiece?" Brock asked, breaths calming slowly as he bent down to kiss along Steve's arm. 

"Not often enough," Steve mumbled, his brain had checked out and his body was limp and tired, aching for rest. For time to process.

"You're a fucking masterpiece," Brock said, voice soft as he nudged Steve's elbow out of the way so that he could kiss Steve's cheek. "A goddamn masterpiece," he said again before leaning back. "I'll be right back."

Steve hummed. He was okay. Mostly. Ninety percent okay. Ninety-five. He was still drunk, that was all. A little buzzed so his brain was a little slow and his perception a little off. He'll be one hundred percent fine in the morning.

Brock moved off the bed to get rid of the condom. He snatched the other one from the floor on his way to the bathroom and Steve heard the lid of the trash close and the faucet running for a couple of seconds. 

And then Brock was back, extra towel in hand. "Thought you would have moved off that wet spot by now," he said, a finger tapping Steve by the side of his hips. But Steve didn't budge, he didn't care. He was perfectly fine where he was settled. He didn't want to move yet. Couldn't.

Brock moved his finger up and traced the curve of Steve's ass. "May I?" he asked, sitting down next to Steve, brushing the fresh towel over his butt. Even as Steve nodded, he took it for an excuse to play with his hole instead of the mere courtesy to get all that excessive lube off him. Steve wasn't really in the mood for it anymore. And yet, he let him. Sometimes with sex, it was difficult to stop.

But Brock cleaned the cleft of Steve's ass without any self-indulgent or voyeuristic interest, but with gentle yet thorough strokes, and wiped over his rim with equal amounts of purpose and care. "Unbelievable," Brock said, mostly to himself. Still getting over the force of his own orgasm.

When he was done, he lay back down next to Steve, fingers grazing over Steve's shoulder blade all the way to the back of his neck, and Steve closed his eyes all the way. 

"I usually don't sleep with guys who have a reputation like yours," Brock said quietly, fingers carding through Steve's hair. "I'm glad I made and exception tonight."

Steve frowned, forcing his brain back into the conversation. 

"Tonight, you just looked too damn good to pass on," he added as if he was confessing to a crime.

Steve scrambled, suddenly fully awake again, and propped himself up on his elbows, staring at Brock, question written right there on his face.

"Come on, Steve," Brock said, there was a little sweat on his forehead. He really thought he had complimented Steve by telling him his looks had outweighed his sexual history. "You can't be offended by that," Brock insisted. "Everyone knows Captain America has been around. Your hole doesn't show it though," he remarked, rendering Steve speechless with his comment. "You're lucky with that. Guess those are the perks of being bi and versatile. I mean it's a little loose, but who isn't these days," Brock added unbothered, as if this was just a regular conversation. "Nothing harder to come by than a tight fit. No wonder you have a thing for fingering," he went on, calm but with cruel amusement in his tone. "Cock can't give you that stretch anymore, huh? There are toys that can help you with that. Get you nice and tight again."

Steve stared at him, unable to process what Brock was just saying so casually. Unable to process how he said it. "I don't need help." Steve's heart was racing in his chest but he forced his body still. Forced volume into his voice from tight lungs. "I don't have a problem."

"I didn't mean it like that," Brock said immediately. "It's not that bad. Some guys even like it like that. It's just that you can tell you've been stretched a lot."

"Yeah," Steve said. Annoyance and anger boiling up in his throat. "By you. Tonight." 

"You don't have to be embarrassed. I told you it doesn't show yet." Brock even smiled at him as if Steve needed comfort. It made Steve sick. This guy really didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. "It's not a secret though, right? Are there any co-pilots left you haven't slept with?" Of course there were. A lot. In fact, more than Steve was happy with at times. "What about cabin crews?" Brock asked and laughed. "It's okay, Steve," he assured him, but it didn't feel okay at all. "I'm not judging. Just saying, I usually have a different type. I'm more of a long-term, being-exclusive kind of guy. A one night stand just doesn't reward the work you put in." 

It itched Steve to say that he had never wanted this to be just a one time thing either. But he knew it was the wrong thing to object over. And it was useless anyway, trying to convince Brock of it. 

"Gotta admit though," Brock added, "you really are something special. We still made it work." He grinned and glanced down to Steve's wrung out dick. "I've never had to use two fingers before, but this was still the best sex I had in a while. A long while. Ever, maybe. I don't regret that it happened at all." 

"I-," Steve started, he needed a moment to get his head straight. "I think I have to go," he said eventually. He regretted what happened. Wished he hadn't gone for that second round. 

"Steve, come on," Brock tried again. He sat up against the headboard. "I want you to stay."

"I don't stay over," Steve said, it was a lie, but he figured his reputation would sell it. 

* * *

Steve didn't remember getting dressed, he didn't remember putting on his shoes or his jacket. He only remembered the sound of the door clicking shut behind him and the way his body almost tumbled down the three flights of stairs with the need for fresh air. 

Chicago was half asleep around him and the smell of rain clung to the street as he stood outside. Blue hour before dawn just minutes away. The air was dry though, cold and still. And the anger started to fade. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair once before he fished his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, ready to get home. 

Ready to be done with Brock Rumlow.


	4. Chapter 4

The streets were quiet. Quieter than ever. Quiet for a city like Chicago. Steve stared into the night from the backseat of the cab. He tried a smile, caught it in the reflection of the window. He was fine. 

Brock's touch lingered all over his body, from the firm grip around his ankle to the kiss against his temple. Steve's skin crawled with thoughts on what he should have said, but didn't. Useless arguments and objections. He didn't know why he bothered. There was no place to leave them. No person to leave them with. 

He checked his messages out of reflex, but neither Bucky nor Sam had bothered to check in with him yet. And why would they. They were used to this. Used to Steve disappearing halfway through the night. There was no need to worry about him.

Frustrated with himself, his restless mind, he slid the phone back into his jacket and tried to think of something else. Anything. 

However shitty the night had ended, at least this way he would get to sleep in his own bed. For the first time this week. Something to look forward to. 

The city passed him by like the evening before his eyes. Brock in his leather pants. The cold beer. Bucky's disapproving looks but the shrugged off silence when he'd quietly asked why. Brock's smile and the taste of liquor on his lips. His shoulders and arms when he'd brought his hands up to his face.

And Steve on his knees. 

He cleared his throat with the spark of arousal, shook those memories off as he straightened his back. God, things had started off well. Really fucking well. Could have been a night to remember instead of a fuck to forget. 

Steve's mouth felt awfully dry now, pending hangover looming over him. He needed sleep. Lots of it. Water and some Advil. Then sleep. He'll be fine in the morning.

He always was. 

* * *

When Steve woke up, it was because the sun was out bright, blinds overlooked in yesterday's rush to pass out. He checked the clock first, then his phone, but neither told him how to go about the day. 

He had been happy to have those three days off. Really fucking happy. Now all he wanted to do was get up, get dressed and go to work. Get into any fucking cockpit available. Maybe skip security. Just maybe. He didn't give a fuck actually. 

With a sigh he turned around, body naked beneath the sheets, and closed his eyes again. Willing those damn sleep hormones back in his brain. 

He drifted back and forth, time slipping by unnoticed until the past night found its way into Steve's dreams. The sound of Brock's voice. Praising Steve. And meaning it. Praising Steve as he took him apart. Praising Steve and hating every second of it. 

The back of his neck was damp from the sweat and his dick was hard when he opened his eyes for the second time that morning. He buried his hands beneath the pillows, refusing to do anything about it. Not now. He'd let Brock haunt his every thought, make it worth the wait. Brock had ruined the night, but Steve wasn't going to let him ruin his morning as well. 

He blinked, gaze tired and unfocused, the city all around him just outside the windows. Office buildings and apartments. And planes in the sky. Here, he was a million miles away, in the privacy of his own space. His own bed. In the city he called home. That had taken him in like no other. 

Long gone were the days when pilots would stay in five-star hotels, with airlines tightening budgets and forcing aircraft personnel through the cheapest options. Steve loved flying but he didn't mind coming home either. Didn't mind the small luxuries he allowed himself here. King-sized bed and heated floors. Dishwasher and air-conditioning. 

And yet he put himself back in Brock's apartment, the smaller bed and the cheaper sheets. The thrusts that echoed all the way up Steve's spine below wet lips and fast breaths. Part of him wished he was still there. Still in that moment or have it again. Brock's face when he looked down at Steve. 

In the memories he replayed, Brock wasn't quiet but he was silenced. All words erased, turned into moans of pleasure instead. 

Steve rocked his hips against the bed, lazy, unhurried. It was his day off. He thought of Brock's boots and the way he'd stepped up just before their first kiss. Thought about him at the party, gesturing with rough hands, veins straining on their back. About Brock at work. Uniform and gloved hands. Palms stroking over Steve's back in search of hidden things that weren't there. The same gesture in Brock's bed. Naked hands and naked skin. Hidden thoughts as he fucked Steve with fingers and cock. 

Then and there, with only himself for a witness, he didn't mind becoming what Brock already thought he was. Tangled up in the teasing fabric of the sheets, with his legs twitching and his toes curling, as he brought his hand down his chest. Slow, but aching for the touch. He could feel the weight of his own breath in his stomach, the weight of Brock's body forcing him down. 

He'd take what he needed from Brock now, and dump the rest of the memories along with Brock Rumlow's opinions. He'd wanted sex and he'd gotten sex. Plenty. End of story. 

With the moment that manifested thoughts and fantasies into physical sensations, needs, Steve started playing with his nipple like he'd done for Brock. Body sensitive to the touch, just shy of painful. It was the price for playing with fire. 

He mirrored Brock's touch with his own hand, elevating the experience, twisting it to serve nobody but him. No one here to judge him if he allowed Brock's words to slip through. So what if he'd let himself be called beautiful once more through memory. A fucking masterpiece. So what if he'd let himself be called slut here. 

It was for his own purposes. 

It was nobody's business. 

He came with a hand around his cock, but didn't bother to stop the way he spilled himself all over his stomach. Instead he ran the tips of his fingers through the mess, thinking of Brock. And his mouth. Thinking of his cheekbones in the dip of Steve's hips. And the tip of his nose in the cooling come. Thinking of the wasted shot in Brock's sheets. 

The early afternoon passed with the shower, with Steve sorting his clothes and making a pile for his dry-cleaning. 

Sam was the first to call, but Steve was preoccupied staring into the fridge, so he let it go to voicemail. Ignored Buck's call half an hour later and took a second shower instead. He sent them a quick text, letting them know he was okay, before heading back to bed for an afternoon nap. 

Days off just weren't what they used to be. Normally he would have gone over to Sam's and Buck's by now. But he hadn't forgotten about their dinner plans. Wasn't going to subject himself to the awkwardness of double dates. Wasn't going to entertain or help his friends out with his small talk. Not this time. Not when it was Nat and Clint. 

Soon enough, Buck and Sam would be too caught up in the preparations to keep calling. To try and convince him to join them in their panic. Steve knew the drill, but today he wasn't in the mood to be the hero. To rescue his friends and their social life as a couple. 

Instead he would get rest. Rest and recharge. Read a book or whatever other people did on their weekends. There were enough numbers in his phone to call up for spontaneous meetups, but he didn't want to see anyone else. 

He wanted just himself. And whatever he deemed worth remembering of Brock Rumlow. 

* * *

It was late, but not too late, when boredom got the best of Steve, and he sent a text to Nat, knowing exactly where she was and who she was with.

To Nat 9:28PM  
Miss you. 

It wasn't his goal to meddle with her relationship. Wasn't his intention to get in between anything. He truly missed her. Now more than ever as he realized how lucky he had been. How easy things had been. Easy and nice. The opposite of last night. 

He dropped down onto his couch, legs spread and with one feet up as he absently started to scroll through his phone looking for old pictures of her. Nat in her underwear. Nat with a hand between her legs. The two of them together in bed. It wasn't his proudest hour. 

He usually deleted all pictures and messages when his arrangements ended and whoever he slept with at the time wanted to move on to more serious things. It was rare that Steve called things quit. Ninety-nine percent of the times he actually liked the people he invited into his bed. And he liked spending some time with them before and after they've had sex. And then very rarely, he was wrong about liking those people. Like last night. 

Nat and him had been hooking up for so long though, that it had barely occurred to him that she could ever change her mind about wanting something more serious. Part of him was convinced that she'd always be around. That he'd never had to delete anything of hers. He felt proven right when things fell apart so quickly between her and the professor. Now though, he wasn't so sure. 

He stared at a picture of her bend over the bed, wearing nothing but her uniform shirt, the airline's logo caressing the curve of her arched back, when a notification lit up at the top of the screen. 

From Nat 9:36PM  
Steve.. 

He was still thinking about what to do with that when another message popped up. 

From Nat 9:37PM  
What are you up to? 

This one didn't help either. The question could go either way. Steve, what are you doing telling me you miss me? Steve, what are you doing right now? What are you doing right now, because I miss you too? 

He decided to ignore the question altogether. 

To Nat 9:40PM  
How's the double date going? 

From Nat 9:40PM  
Texting you, how do you think it's going? 

Reading her words, he smiled. Missed her twice as much. 

From Nat 9:41PM  
Bucky is still pissed about the guy you left with. What is that about? 

Steve let his phone drop onto his chest. He didn't want to be reminded of it. Didn't want to talk about it. 

To Nat 9:44PM  
He hates to see me leave, but loves to watch me go. 

From Nat 9:47PM  
Good one. Why aren't you here? 

To Nat 9:48PM  
Spent the better half of last week sharing a hotel room with Sam. Don't blame a guy for needing a break. 

To Nat 9:50PM  
We shouldn't be texting. 

He had already hit sent but then realized how stupid it looked given that he was the one initiating the exchange in the first place. So he added a third text just in case. 

To Nat 9:50PM  
? 

He stared at the screen for a solid minute or two, with no immediate reply, before tossing it to the side. 

He fumbled for the remote and turned on his TV for distraction. He zapped aimlessly through the channels before lingering on a baseball report. Fucking Brock Rumlow. 

From Nat 10:01PM  
Probably not. 

To Nat 10:05PM  
So what's your excuse? 

From Nat 10:06PM  
i'm drinking, what's yours? 

Really, though, what was his excuse? He watched the phone first and then the TV for answers that were only found within himself when another notification popped up at the top of the screen. 

It wasn't a message from Nat. It was an unknown number, but as soon as Steve caught a glance of the text he knew immediately who it was from. And all of the abandoned anger rose back up bitterly in his throat. 

From unknown 10:11PM  
did you tell anyone from work about us? 

Steve shook his head. There was no _us_ and there would never be. Steve hated the implications. They had sex, they weren't a _thing_. 

To Brock 10:13PM  
You worrying about my reputation again? 

Because he had that distant feeling of being caught, he turned the TV off, reminding himself that he didn't care about baseball. 

From Brock 10:15PM  
you really don't give a fuck about other people do you? 

Steve frowned. Fingers ready to type away, angry words and sarcasm spilling from every thought. But he held out, hesitated. Then opened another text as if to prove Brock wrong. To prove that he cared about some people. 

To Nat 10:16PM  
You. 

Then he hit sent and went back to Brock's message to let him know just how little he cared about _certain_ people. 

To Brock 10:18PM  
It's called minding your own business. You should try it sometime. 

He hadn't done himself a favor replying to Brock in the first place. Now, he was struggling to sort through the two conversations, sort through his moods. The nostalgic impulses that made him text Nat, and the spiteful annoyance that made him answer Brock's texts. 

From Brock 10:20PM  
glad you can afford not giving a shit but talk like this can have serious consequences for other people. wish you would realize that. 

Without waiting for just one second, Steve typed out his reply, causing the messages to overlap as Brock had something to add himself. 

To Brock 10:20PM  
Like you wish I hadn't been such a slut before you? 

From Brock 10:20PM  
this is exactly why I don't fuck around on the job. i knew this was going to be a mistake. i can't afford to look for a new placement. 

From Nat 10:21PM  
Steve.. 

To Brock 10:21PM  
What do you mean? 

His concentration was slipping and it was becoming more and more difficult to keep these two strings of texts separated. Untangled. Clear of complications. He didn't want Brock's accusations spoiling what he had with Nat. He didn't want what he had with Nat spilling into what he and Brock were lacking. Filling cracks with unsustainable chemistry. 

To Nat 10:23PM  
I know, I know. Go back to your double date. Don't want Sam to give me another speech about not getting between you and Clint. 

Why he tried to get out of his conversation with Nat instead of the one with Brock, Steve couldn't explain. Was out of excuses once more. 

From Brock 10:28PM  
people get fired for rumors like that. 

From Brock 10:28PM  
happened to me before. 

Shit. 

To Brock 10:30PM  
Shit. 

Motionless, Steve stared at the screen, feeling torn. None of this excused Brock's behavior, but it explained his panic. He felt bad for what had happened to Brock, but it wasn't his fault. And yet Brock thought it was okay to take his anger out on him. 

Steve had tried to be discreet. Hell, they hadn't even kissed until they were standing in Brock's bedroom. They hadn't held hands. And if his flirting had gone too far, Brock hadn't given Steve any indication. Steve had tried to look out for him. Like he tried to look out for people in general. Be fucking considerate. Help where he could. Give advice when asked and offer support. He took responsibility for the things within his control. But he wasn't a fucking super hero. If people talked they talked. It wasn't his fault. If an old boss had been a homophobic piece of shit, it wasn't Steve's fault either. 

To Brock 10:33PM  
Look, I didn't tell anyone. I never planned to and I won't. I don't know what people are talking about. But the only thing they can possibly know is that we talked for a while. That we left at the same time. 

He purposefully avoided writing 'together'. He didn't know why. There was nothing wrong with that word and it was precisely what had occurred. They had left together. But Steve figured it was smarter to distance himself at all costs now. It was what Brock needed to hear. 

From Nat 10:34PM  
Another one? 

He smiled, thinking his intentions had been overruled by some higher force. That he was going to be done with Brock now, while Nat hadn't taken the way out she was offered. 

To Nat 10:35PM  
Don't act surprised. 

He really had assumed that last text to Brock would have been the end of it. There had been nothing left to say. 

Until- 

From Brock 10:43PM  
i'm sorry i said those things. 

Steve scrambled as his heart rate picked up. He didn't know what the fuck caused Brock to apologize now. He didn't know what to reply. Thank him. Or tell him to fuck off. Accept the apology or pretend he was over it already. 

From Nat 10:45PM  
Clint doesn't mind. 

There was something about that message that got Steve back into the mood, just the kind of distraction he needed. 

To Nat 10:46PM  
Me getting in between? 

From Nat 10:47PM  
You like him? 

Smiling, he bit his lips, trying to picture it. Nat and Clint. And Steve added to the mix. 

To Nat 10:48PM  
I trust your judgement. 

Aside from his night with Buck and Sam, he'd only been with two people at once one other time. It was the first time he and Nat had hooked up. Him and her and that flight attendant Kristen on a long distance stint. Another shabby hotel room and leftover wine from the plane. 

From Nat 10:51PM  
Have to get back to you on that. Think Bucky is about to get the board games out. 

To Nat 10:52PM  
Anytime. Good luck stopping him. 

From Brock 10:52PM  
i'm not an asshole all the time. 

It wasn't hard to believe. Steve had never thought of Brock as a shitty person. Had never seen him act any way but professional at work. Maybe he wasn't friendly, but he'd been polite enough. Always patient and never rude. 

To Brock 10:54PM  
Tempted to believe you. 

Thanks to Nat, Steve's mood had settled for his usual positive outlook and he was ready to file this entire mess of his adventure with Rumlow under resolved. Life was too short to get hung up on shit that had escalated through miscommunication. 

Brock was bothered by what people said due to his bad experiences. His preoccupation with reputation was his way to protect himself. Protect other people. And Steve just happened to get caught up in his anxieties. It happened, but it didn't matter anymore. 

Instead he poured himself a large glass of wine and headed for the bedroom. He didn't remember making his bed, but the sheets were straightened neatly and Steve gave his past self a mental pat on the back. This time around he remembered to close the curtains so he could sleep in undisturbed. 

From Brock 10:56PM  
next time i'll make a better impression. 

To Brock 10:59PM  
Next time? 

He borrowed the innocent fake surprise from Nat, let his head fall into the pillows and stretched out his legs. He was worn out from the night before and his follow-up in the morning, but even though he wasn't in the mood for sex, he was still in the mood to flirt. He always was. 

From Brock 11:01PM  
never say never right? 

Right. Steve circled his hips, trying to find a comfortable position. Maybe he wasn't entirely worn out after all. He wasn't hard yet, but a faint ripple of anticipation made its way all through his body despite it. 

From Brock 11:02PM  
you had a good time didn't you? aside from the shit i said? 

His dick sure thought so, getting interested in the memories too as Steve recalled the better part of the night. 

From Brock 11:03PM  
not asking for my ego. asking if you're okay. 

So maybe Brock had learned a thing or two. Had realized his mistakes. Made an effort. And maybe Steve liked the prospect of heading over there again in the future. Establish something casual, but establish something nonetheless. Become friends. Benefits included. 

Maybe Steve hadn't minded the things Brock had said as much as the way he had said them. Too long after their heat had cooled, long after they could have counted for dirty talk or whatever. The way Brock had acted as if there was a problem while saying over and over that there wasn't. Saying Steve's sexual history didn't bother him while acting as if Steve should be bothered. 

Maybe Steve had hated Brock painting himself all high and mighty, and maybe Steve had found it particularly thrilling that Brock had fucked him anyway. The worst thing wasn't that Brock had told him he'd looked 'too good to pass on'. The worst thing was that it had taken Brock years to see that. That the reason they hadn't fucked earlier wasn't a relationship on Brock's side. Wasn't the fact that Brock was shy or lacked experience. And that Steve was intimidating. Wasn't that Brock was closeted or flat out refused to get involved at work. The reason that they hadn't fucked earlier was that Brock thought he was better than that. Better than Steve. Too good for him. 

And that attitude just didn't sit right with Steve. 

To Brock 11:09PM  
There's room for improvement. 

There was, and also there was no need for Brock to know that Steve was fine despite it. Bad sex wasn't the end of the world. Good sex that ended bad wasn't the end of the world. Steve could deal. He was okay. And Brock's apology was a first step. 

From Brock 11:09PM  
you're a bit much to handle. kinda overwhelming. 

To Brock 11:10PM  
That supposed to make me feel better? 

Annoyed with Brock and bored of the whole thing, Steve downed the rest of the wine in one go and reluctantly pulled his body out of bed once more. He left his phone behind, dropped the glass back off in the kitchen before heading to the bathroom. 

Every last bit of arousal had left him as he stood barefoot on the gently warmed tiles, lighting just bright enough to hide the shadows under his eyes from his reflection. The soft buzz of the electric toothbrush made him sleepy, but for the first time that day, Steve felt the effects of last night's efforts. His jaw felt heavy and his arms felt weak and tired. His back ached a little, muscles and tendons on the insides of his thighs sore. 

Unsurprisingly, his phone hadn't gotten the memo that Steve was done for the day, obliviously blinking away with another text. 

From Brock 11:15PM  
i think i'm trying to make you happy. 

From Brock 11:16PM  
know that i'm failing. 

From Brock 11:16PM  
my fault, not yours. 

Steve stared once more, eyes faster than his mind to process the words. Then he read the first message again. Slower. Remembered his own words back at the restaurant. At Sam's party. Happy, he had said to Brock, trying to make you happy. Not drunk. 

Brock hadn't been the only one failing. Steve had stormed out too. Had refused to communicate. Had maybe even pushed Brock too far with that second round of sex after Brock had admitted that he needed more time. That it had been a while. All in all, there was a chance that Steve really had been overwhelming. 

To Brock 11:18PM  
Might be heading in the right direction. 

To Brock 11:19PM  
Never say never, right? 

There was no need to keep making things worse between them. Brock had opened a line of communication and Steve wasn't going to shut it down. This was good. Talking was good. Only if they'd talked, they had a chance for better sex next time. 

From Brock 11:21PM  
fresh start? 

Life was too short to hold grudges, too short to let good things slip by. 

To Brock 11:22PM  
Fresh start. 

Maybe not all things that started out badly were destined to end worse. 


	5. Chapter 5

"Come on, it wasn't that bad," Bucky insisted, standing behind the kitchen counter while checking his spaghetti sauce on the stove. 

This day was more like it. How days off were supposed to feel. Autumn sun still out, a hint of summer heat in the otherwise crisp air. Balcony door ajar, the curtain rustling on a soft breeze. Wine on the table, scents and sounds of a long forgotten childhood flooding the loft-like space through the open kitchen. 

"I don't know," Steve said, eyes closed for a moment. "It sounds pretty bad." He shrugged, went back to fuck around on his phone. Nat still owed him a text. An answer. 

He hadn't heard from Brock since last night either. Which was good. Obviously. Steve didn't like people who were clingy. What bothered Steve was how wrong he'd been about Brock. Thinking he wouldn't care about other people's opinions. What other people thought of him. Or maybe Steve hadn't been wrong at all. And he truly didn't give a fuck what people thought about Brock Rumlow, only what they thought about Steve Rogers. Or maybe all that mattered to him was that people wouldn't speak out loud what they thought. Not at work at least. 

It didn't matter though. Steve had assured Brock the argument was behind them. 

Since then he had spent most of the morning in his bed and most of the afternoon on Sam's couch. Sam's couch that was Sam's and Bucky's couch now. Listening to both of them reexamine every last detail of their double date with Nat and Clint. 

Clint who might be open to a casual threeway thing. 

But his phone remained silent on every glance. 

"You weren't there," Buck told him, looking over to Sam reading in his chair for a second opinion. 

"Yeah, no, I was there and it was that bad," Sam confirmed, then went back to the book in front of him. 

Steve let his eyes wander from the pages between Sam's fingers over his bare arms, the purple t-shirt, and the back of his neck. The curled frame of his reading glasses behind his ears. The cast-down gaze and the parted lips. 

"I can see you checking out my boyfriend from over here," Bucky called, disrupting Steve in his exploration. 

Slowly, lazily, Steve brought his head around to face him, keeping the rest of his body where it was, still draped over the couch as if it were his own. 

Bucky was leaning over the counter now, forearms draped all the way across so he could grip the edge on the other side. Watching Steve with a grin who tilted his head further so he could check out Buck too. 

"That's better," Bucky said, not moving from Steve's gaze. Instead, he rolled his sleeves further up, ran a hand through his hair to loosen the strands. Crossed his feet to show off his hips. 

"Stop eyefucking him in my kitchen," Sam told Steve, but didn't bother to look up. 

Steve shrugged as Bucky winked at him and then turned to get back to dinner. "Someone had to," he mumbled, knowing Sam would hear every word. 

"As if he isn't enough of a pillow princess already," Sam said, looking up at Steve over the rim of his glasses, expression dead except for his stern eyes. 

"Didn't need to know that," Steve remarked, but glanced over at Bucky nonetheless. He still had his back turned, curves of his shoulder blades visible through the shirt and his ass perfectly framed by the back pockets of his jeans. 

Yeah, maybe Steve did need to know that. 

The three of them, their night together, it was just a big mess of moments in Steve's memories. He couldn't put a timestamp on either of them. Didn't know where the night began and where it ended. Just remembered the inbetweens. Buck's sweaty hair and the way it stuck to the muscles of Sam's chest. Sam's hand on the back of Bucky's neck when he guided his mouth down onto Steve's dick. Fucking him slowly and carefully as he did so. Steve remembered his face pressed against Bucky's ass, tongue as deep inside as it would go. Before or after Sam had come in the same spot. Or before and after. The level of trust beyond what Steve had thought possible. Beyond what he had thought himself capable of. Had Sam touched him? He must have. Someone had jerked him off. His own hand reaching for Sam in the midst of his climax. His come all over Bucky's face. In his hair. Dripping down to his chest. His fingers all over Buck, Sam watching as if there were places off limits. Had there been places off limits? 

Steve's own hand on his dick. 

Sam's hand on Buck's dick. Bucky coming all over Steve's cock. Over his fingers. Over Steve's own release. 

Sam washing Buck's face. 

Steve washing himself. 

Had Sam touched him? 

He must have. 

Brock had touched him. Had loathed him but touched him. Sam didn't loathe him. Sam was his best friend. 

And yet Steve's thoughts circled back and forth on from that night to Brock. That night they hadn't talked about. And that night Brock hadn't stopped talking. To Brock, Steve had been _around_. Had been broken in and used up. For all the ways he had touched Steve, everywhere, been inside him, ultimately to Brock, Steve had passed through so many hands that he was _untouchable_. Was untouchable in the way dried up sand covered the soles of Steve's running shoes. Untouchable in the way streaks of rain and dust remained on the window glass long into spring. Untouchable in the way that sticky fingerprints clogged scanners at check-in sometimes. In dire need to be wiped clean. 

Now, Steve couldn't stop wondering if Brock was the only one to think so. 

Unsure about his memory, he glanced at Sam, couldn't believe his own doubts. Sam had let him into his bedroom. Into his relationship. For that one night. Had watched eagerly, every interaction between Steve and Buck. He had wanted it. As much as Steve had. As much as Bucky had. 

Everything was fine. It wasn't right. Allowing Brock to make him feel insecure about his friendships. It was unfair. To Sam. To Brock. So, Steve focused his attention back on his phone, checked his work calendar and his emails. 

"We're deadheading to Dallas on Saturday," he told Sam, scrolling down to get their entire schedule. Bids were set up and concluded a month in advance, but neither Steve nor Sam bothered to learn their flights by heart. They mostly went from week to week, unlike their colleagues with children who had to neatly organize their babysitters and family time around each trip. "Same day flight to Heathrow," Steve went on. "Overnight stay and then heading back for Phoenix in the cockpit. Deadheading to JFK. And finally home to Chicago piloting the first flight in the morning." 

"So we'll be back on what?" Sam asked, looking up to make sense of the timezones. "Monday? Tuesday?" 

"Tuesday," Steve let him know. "Arrival in Heathrow is early Sunday. They want a third pilot on the Boeing to Phoenix on Monday morning in case it's delayed. So that's going to be us." 

"Who's the cabin crew?" Sam asked and Steve frowned at the question. It didn't really matter. 

"Why?" Steve asked, suddenly suspicious that it had to do with him. Had to do with whom he'd done it with. 

"Just curious," Sam said, closed his book and looked over to Buck in the kitchen. "Need some help there, Bucky?" he asked, gracefully avoiding Steve's eyes. 

They ate quietly, sat on the table with steaming pasta and burning candles between them. Fresh salad and grated cheese that complimented the wine. Bucky brought up a couple more ideas for second and third double dates with Nat and Clint while Steve was lost in his own thoughts. 

Every single time he tried to focus on something else, Brock's words slid back into his mind. His praise of Steve while he still thought himself better than him. The way he had claimed to help Steve out, recognized his efforts as some sort of tragic evidence for Steve's uselessness. His apology. Not of what he claimed Steve to be, but of how he'd spelled it out. 

If sex was truly about power, the sentiment had always slipped right past Steve. To him sex had always been about sensations. About fun. About release and physicality. But then there was Brock on his high horse. And being the guy who made Brock Rumlow loosen up had a whole different appeal. The one to make him beg for a body he looked down upon. A body that was both forbidden and unable to be touched. And yet Steve wanted to hear him beg for it. That was a kind of power he couldn't deny wanting. 

When Steve looked up from his plate, the domesticy around him began to fuck with his head. The food, the furniture, the way Sam looked at Bucky as he rambled on about a weekend getaway. None of it had bothered Steve before. This was his second home. With Buck and Sam and their relationship. But now, it started to rub him the wrong way. 

"Don't you think a whole weekend is a bit too much?" Steve asked, twirling his fork half-heartedly in his spaghetti. 

"Why?" Bucky asked, mouth not entirely empty yet. "We went on that weeklong trip last year." 

"That wasn't a couples thing though," Steve reminded him. It had been a nice holiday out in Hawaii. The ocean, the beach, the sun. But he mostly recalled fucking Nat in her hotel room. Emptying the minibar and licking the liquor straight from her body. Later sleeping peacefully in his own. He had no idea what Buck and Sam had been up to. 

"Guess not," Bucky shrugged and nudged Sam's arm with his elbow. Urging him to get into the conversation. 

"Maybe Brock wants to come," Sam tried while Bucky choked on his food. 

"What's the matter with you and Brock anyway?" Steve asked and watched Bucky cough his lungs out for a second. 

"Nothing," Buck told him, face red as he reached for his wine to mend his burning throat. "Just think he's a creep," he added and took another sip. 

"Why?" Steve went on, a bad vibe didn't justify that response. 

"Don't know," Buck shrugged, put his glass down and raised his eyebrows defiantly. "You're the one who fucked him. You tell me. Was he creepy?" 

Steve stared at him for a second, debating with himself whether he should really confirm their hook-up or not. He had, after all, assured Brock he hadn't planned on telling anyone. "I didn't fuck him," he said eventually, it was technically true. If one wanted to get hung up on semantics. 

"Good," Bucky said, reaching all the way around the corner of the table to pat his thigh. "That's good to hear." He paused, as if he wanted to give Steve another chance to get his story straight. "I don't know," Bucky added, when Steve remained silent. "He's an ass. That's all. That's all I heard." 

"From?" Steve asked. 

"From all the pilots," Bucky told him annoyed. "And all your friends at work." 

"Great," Steve said. He was done with rumors. About him, about Brock. He didn't want to listen to either side. "Do you happen to know what they say about me?" 

"What do you mean?" Bucky asked, putting his fork down and glancing helplessly over to Sam. "Everyone loves you." 

"Yeah," Steve tried, he shouldn't have brought it up in the first place. "Yeah, I know. Just wondering." 

"We love you," Bucky said and grinned, knowing it was going to make Steve feel just that slightest bit uneasy. "Right, Sam?" 

"Absolutely," Sam agreed and then got up to fetch the open bottle from the kitchen counter to refill their glasses. 

"Thanks," Steve said, knowing it was considered a shitty reply everywhere else except here. With these two. They got it. They got that Steve knew what that word meant, but that he didn't know what it felt like. All he knew, all that Bucky had explained to him was that it was different from feeling grateful and happy. Different yet from the simple enjoyment of witnessing someone's life. Different from feeling responsible. That it was settled somewhere deep and that it could change the whole world. 

Sometimes Steve believed him. Most of the time he thought he was a fucking idiot. 

His last day off went by in a haze. He was busy picking up his uniform from the drycleaners and packing for the upcoming week. Busy forgetting about all the things he didn't want to think about. 

As always, he made sure to get a good night's sleep on Friday, turning his phone off and the AC down before hitting the sheets just after nine. 

Though Sam was seated next to him on the plane taking them to Dallas, they didn't talk much, quietly flipping through newspapers and magazines over their coffee. 

Steve vaguely knew that Brock had the weekend off, although he couldn't remember talking about it at Sam's party or after, but he wasn't surprised when he was nowhere to be seen during security checks. 

Not that Steve had been looking for him. 

Not that he had wanted to see him. 

He had just been curious. After Brock lashing out over his fear of people talking about them, no one said anything to Steve. No one looked at him any different. And so Steve figured it had been Brock's panic getting the best of him. 

"You think Bucky misses flying?" Sam asked out of the blue, turning to face Steve. 

"Probably," Steve said honestly. "I don't think he misses heading out for war though." 

"I'm scared he'll do another tour just for the jets," Sam admitted, eyes distant and worried. 

"Has he said anything?" Steve asked, not sure if he'd missed something. He knew Bucky better than anyone in the world and the thought of Bucky signing another contract had never occurred to him until now. Not after the accident. Not after Sam and starting over in Chicago. 

Sam shook his head. "No, it's just-," he paused, then looked up at Steve, "he's not going to be a housewife either, is he?" 

"He's happy," Steve assured him. "Trust me, I know." 

"I'm thinking of cutting down flights," Sam confessed, as if it was a casual decision. Not a fucking deal breaker. "Bidding on more long haul flights to get more time at home after." 

"Meaning you want me to bid on more long haul flights," Steve said, drawing his own depressing conclusions. Between the two of them, Steve had seniority. So he had higher chances of getting the flights he wanted. The schedule he wanted. Most of the time, him and Sam buddy-bid on flights, resulting in similar lines of flying. Lines that Sam alone wouldn't manage to secure. 

"I've been meaning to ask for a while," Sam explained, biting his lip and fidgeting with the empty cup. 

Steve looked at him in confusion, trying to sort his own thoughts. "You're asking me to adjust my life to your relationship?" he asked, but couldn't entirely believe Sam would do that to him. 

"Would it be so bad?" Sam wondered, nervousness reaching his voice. 

Yeah, it actually would be that bad. Because long haul flights demanded a relief crew on board. And Steve hated sharing the cockpit. Steve hated sleeping in the cockpit. Steve hated being relief pilot himself, hated giving up take-off and landing on every second flight. 

"I have to think about it," Steve said nonetheless, trying to remain calm. He cared about his friends, but he didn't know if this was a favor he wouldn't regret. 

"It's for Bucky," Sam added carefully, knowing it would be even harder for Steve to decline. 

Steve wrestled with things to reply, he'd already said he needed to think about it, when the seatbelt sign lit up and he had an excuse to busy himself with getting his table cleared and his seat upright. Useless to say that he dreaded the flight to London already. 

Dallas was overcrowded the second they landed, delay announcements on every second flight, and Steve held onto his carry-on for dear life as they headed towards the pilots' lounge. They still had enough time for lunch, before he had to get out on the field and into the cockpit for their checklists. 

Sam looked guilty as they ate, having picked opposite options as per protocol. "I wasn't trying to just throw this at you," he said, obviously still thinking about their conversation. 

"I know," Steve assured him, although he didn't. 

"It's just getting harder to say goodbye, you get that right?" Sam asked, although he should know better. 

"After five years?" Steve questioned his reasons. 

"Yes, after five years," Sam just said. "Because things have changed. Bucky isn't some wounded war veteran with PTSD anymore." 

"Doesn't mean he's planning to go back," Steve tried to remind him. "Or leave you." 

Sam stared at him as if the idea of Bucky leaving him personally offended him. As if it was any different from Bucky reenlisting. 

"I just want to be at home more," Sam said, forcing his food down as enthusiastically as Steve. They should have talked about this in Chicago. Not here. Not between flights. Or on them. 

"And then what?" Steve wondered, checking the time. "Start a family?" 

Across from him, Sam fell silent. Sat suspiciously still. It had just been a stupid remark. Sarcasm. Spite. And yet, here they were. 

"You're kidding me, right?" Steve asked, knowing it was none of his business. But it'll change their life. His life. 

"We may have talked about it," Sam admitted. "Once or twice. Nothing serious." 

Right. 

"What about Buck not being a housewife?" Steve argued. "How is having a family not doing exactly that to him?" It wasn't a good way to phrase it. At all. Steve was well aware. But he didn't know how else to put it. 

"It's not-," Sam started, looking to the side as if to find the right words somewhere around them. "It's complicated." 

"I can't do this right now," Steve told him, moving the rest of his food to the side. "I've got a nine-hour flight ahead of me. And so do you." 

Fuck. 

* * *

During the flight, most of their conversations were reduced to small-talk, due to the crowded cockpit. After three and a half hours, Steve handed command over to the relief crew, while getting some rest in the back. He needed his concentration for the landing and Sam knew as much, so he left Steve alone for those hours of downtime. 

They came down in Heathrow just after seven and right on time. Steve was still in a shitty mood, but he was focused and patient with the strong wind over London that even the relief pilot complimented him on his landing. 

The worst thing wasn't the time difference or his exhaustion, it was the fact that they couldn't check into their layover hotel before noon, so instead they sat themselves down for breakfast at the airport, unspoken argument still tense between them. 

"You don't have to do the bids," Sam offered, but Steve had no idea what the alternative was. Splitting up wouldn't get Sam a better schedule. It wouldn't get Steve a better co-pilot. It would make everything worse. Worse maybe than doing long hauls for the rest of his life. 

"I have to think about it," Steve said again. He was too tired to weigh any pros and cons now. 

"I would do it for you," Sam added, somehow committed to making things between them worse than they already were. It didn't matter whether Sam would do the same for Steve or not. He wasn't in the position to do so. All of his choices were hypothetical. All of Steve's choices were real. 

"I need to get some sleep," Steve told him, tired of the topic. Tired of being guilt tripped. 

The airline always booked them separate rooms, although a lot of the time Sam and him ended up falling asleep in the same one. But this time Steve was determined to make use of his own space. 

He might just skip dinner too, knowing Sam would have enough people to hang out with, relief crew and flight attendants all staying at the same hotel. 

The room was nice and the bed was nice, and while he managed to get himself out of his uniform, Steve was asleep before he could even put on his pajamas. 

If Sam had knocked on his door to convince him to join the others at the restaurant, Steve didn't hear it. He woke up past eight, feeling groggy and jetlagged like he hadn't in years. 

It itched him to text Nat, but he didn't know her schedule and even if she was in Chicago, it was still only early afternoon there. So it was more difficult to predict whether she was home. Or whether she was with Clint. With Bucky even.

No, he needed to ask her advice in person. 

* * *

Their flight to Phoenix in the morning was all sorts of terrible. Steve kept his mouth shut, but he didn't like how the pilot handled things in the cockpit, didn't like how he tried to show off in Steve's presence. He wasn't even sure why he was here. Three people on the flight deck should have been more than enough, but it seemed the operating first officer, unlike Sam, wasn't qualified to take over command. So, as per regulations, Steve had to play senior first officer and act as relief pilot, with Sam present as third pilot in case their flight would take longer than twelve hours. Starting an aircraft and assuming it would be delayed, was an attitude that got you delayed ninety percent of the time. Steve hated this. 

Steve hated being relief. He hated long hauls that forced him to hand over his planes, hated time lost that he couldn't log as pilot in command. 

There was just no way he could ever be convinced of bidding on more of them. 

He slept on the plane taking them to New York, helping him to avoid Sam and the jet lag at once. 

"You can't be mad at me forever," Sam said, pressing the elevator button in the hotel lobby. "It's been two days." 

"I still need to think about it," Steve lied, trying to get away from the conversation as soon as possible. 

When the elevator door closed again, Sam snatched the key card from Steve's hands and let it slip into his pocket. "Let's talk in my room," he said. 

"I don't want to talk," Steve told him, held out his hand so Sam could return the card. 

"We'll get this out of the way before returning to Chicago," Sam insisted. "You can either sit down with me now are have Bucky breathing down your neck when we do it at home." 

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing Sam was right. "Fine," he agreed, but he didn't feel like it. It was a pity he couldn't get wasted, minibar off limits since he had a flight tomorrow. 

When Sam pushed the door shut behind them, Steve fell on the nearest bed and closed his eyes for a second. "I don't know what you want me to say," he started, yawned. Wished he was in his own room instead. 

"Are you angry because I love him?" Sam asked. "Because we love each other?" 

"No," Steve said. He was tired. Goddamn tired of this conversation. "I'm not angry about-," he hesitated. "That." 

"It was just an idea, okay?" Sam told him. "The long haul flights. I didn't think it would make any difference to you." 

"Because I live alone?" Steve asked, annoyance drowning out his fatigue. "Because I'm not in a relationship?" 

"That's not what I said," Sam insisted, sat himself down by the desk. "You didn't mind doing them this month." 

"So that you can log some goddamn hours," Steve argued, sitting up so he could face Sam. "You still want to make captain one day, right?" 

Sam sighed, though it was barely audible. Apparently, a promotion wasn't one of his priorities anymore. "Of course," he said despite what Steve's gut told him. "Just thinking of Bucky too." 

"Sure," Steve agreed sarcastically. "For Bucky," he echoed, doubts crawling up from every hidden corner of his body. "That night," he started, knowing he was going to break some unspoken pact between them. That what happened, happened. That it wasn't going to change anything. "When the three of us hooked-up," Steve went on, knowing in his heart that he was making a big mistake. "Was that for Bucky too?" 

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes. 

"You know, that one night," Steve tried, but then stopped when Sam shook his head. 

"I know which night," he told Steve. "What do you mean, if it was for Bucky?" 

Steve took another breath, gave himself a second to sort through his thoughts. "Did you want it just as much?" he asked then, knowing he sounded awfully stupid for an accomplished pilot nearing his forties. "Did you enjoy it just as much?" 

"For fuck's sake, Steve," Sam said, as if that was a good enough answer. "I barely remember the details," he added. Refused to just answer the questions. "It was a good night, maybe it was inevitable even. But we're not open, if that's what you're asking. It just happened. It wasn't a big deal. It's not something I think about. It's not what Bucky and I want from our relationship, you know? Not regularly. Not again." 

Steve nodded, still hung up on his unanswered questions. Didn't particularly like the ones he got either. "My only question was if you wanted it, both of you, or if Bucky wanted it." 

"You need to hear that for your ego?" Sam asked, sounding borderline resentful. "That sex with Captain America was a dream come true. That I prayed it would happen. Him naked in my bedroom, my boyfriend in his lap? That I wished it was me? Jesus, Steve, we're friends. I love you, I trust you, we were drunk. I didn't think it was going to be a big deal sharing those moments between me and Bucky with you. That didn't mean I was lying awake nights before dreaming about it. You're here at work, you're at our home, you've been in Bucky's life forever. That night? I thought, 'what difference does it make. You're my best friend. What difference does it make'." 

Steve nodded again, stared at his hands in his lap. The memory of Bucky in the same spot. 

"Where's all this coming from?" Sam asked, sounding almost nervous now. Worried. "Are you jealous? Is that what's happening?" 

On a sharper breath, Steve pulled his eyes back up to face Sam. "No," Steve said, not in the mood to put any emphasis on it. "I remember Buck being into it. I remember myself being into it. I thought I remembered you being into it." He paused, waiting for Sam to react. Reassure Steve of his memories. But he just looked back at him, expression unreadable. "But I remember you staying away from me. Or keeping Bucky between us. As if I was there just for him." 

Sam shook his head, but Steve couldn't tell what it meant. "I let you in, Steve. We all do. All the time. Won't that ever be enough for you? Don't think I don't know about the thing you're trying to orchestrate with Nat and Clint. Other people's relationships aren't love dispensers you can use whenever you run out being on your own." 

"Sounds like you're the one struggling with jealousy," Steve said, got up to his feet and grabbed his bag. 

"Hey," Sam jumped in, moved to stand in front of him. "I didn't mean it like that, okay? Maybe you're right. Maybe it was a little too much hearing you talk about that night, okay? Hearing you talk about Bucky that night. Wanting it and being into it and all that. Maybe I don't know what to do with that," he admitted. "But that's just love, Steve. A small part of me is always scared I'm going to lose him. Lose him to you." 

It was a bit too much at once, too much to process and not fuck up a reasonable response. Because it sure felt like another way to tell Steve that he owed him. Owed Sam a better schedule and more time at home. "I'll think about the bids," Steve said for what felt like the tenth time. 

"I'll be here," Sam told him, reaching over to hand Steve the key card to his own room back. "Come over anytime. Nothing's changed, okay?" 

Running out of things to say, Steve nodded again. "Okay," he said although it was difficult to believe. 

* * *

He didn't waste a second once he was in his own room to get out of his clothes and under the shower, washing off him what stuck deeper than skin and bones. 

Things were starting to get complicated and Steve hated complications. He didn't have any say in how his friends chose to live their lives, nor did he want to, but that was before he was actively dragged into their decisions. Was held responsible for relationships he didn't want to have. 

When his phone blinked with a text notification, he expected it to be Bucky. Scolding him for his fight with Sam. But it wasn't. 

From Brock 5:14PM  
any chance you can help me get a flight out of nyc and back to chicago? 

Taken by surprise, Steve dropped the phone for a second and looked around. Wondering how Brock knew that he was in New York. Wondering if this was part of a big joke he didn't get. 

To Brock 5:16PM  
First flight tomorrow morning if it isn't fully booked. Why? 

Technically those free tickets were for family members and spouses, but since Steve had never used one before, he was confident there would be no trouble getting Brock on that plane. There wouldn't be any trouble getting Brock on any of his airline's flights tonight, but Steve wouldn't mind at all taking off knowing that Brock was on board. It was only fair that he'd got something out of this too. 

From Brock 5:18PM  
you'd be sparing me days of pain. it's a long story. a family thing. i have a flight booked for wednesday but i'd give everything to leave early. 

So, coincidentally, Brock was in New York visiting his family. With, most likely, no knowledge of Steve's flight schedule. 

Good. 

But Steve felt for him, knew how family could be a curse as often as a blessing. So, without further hesitation, he fumbled through his emails, searching for the right number before he made the call and got Brock a seat in economy. 

To Brock 5:31PM  
You're lucky, they still had free seats. I'll forward you the boarding pass. 

Once Steve had opened the confirmation email and hit the forward button, he realized that he didn't even have Brock's email address. So instead he simply copy-pasted the correct pass number into the messages and send it to Brock so he could get the boarding pass online or at one of the check-in stations at the airport. 

From Brock 5:33PM  
you're saving a man's life. maybe i can take you out sometime? as a thank you? 

It was a tricky question to answer, but nevertheless Steve appreciated the gesture. More than appreciated it. Knew it showed more of the Brock Steve believed to know. The one that wasn't an asshole all the time. Plus, he could use the distraction. 

To Brock 5:36PM  
Should have told you that I'm going to be flying the plane. 

From Brock 5:37PM  
so you didn't get me on a flight that was somehow doomed? we both know i would have deserved it. 

To Brock 5:39PM  
No, I got you on the flight with the best pilot currently on duty. 

From Brock 5:40PM  
and is captain america open to that invitation? 

With everything that had happened these last few days, Steve didn't want to explain himself anymore. Didn't want to justify himself, didn't want to think about relationships. Or dates for that matter. But he still wanted to see Brock, maybe get fucked. So he decided to be upfront about it. 

To Brock 5:44PM  
I have just that one flight tomorrow. How about we head back to my place afterwards? If you're free. 

Unsurprisingly, Brock didn't reply right away. Not like he used to. And Steve decided to turn on the TV for distraction. He was going to head over to Sam's room eventually. For an hour or two. Watch something together and order some food. Not because he was necessarily feeling like it, but because he knew he had to make an effort to smooth things out before they returned to Chicago. He still needed time to think, needed to ask Nat for advice, have some time with Brock even without anyone knowing. And that meant he needed to get everyone off his back for a few days. Including Sam. 

He was about to mentally scratch that time with Brock when he received another text message. One that gave him a little hope for the week. 

From Brock 5:49PM  
i'll pay for the cab. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this, i'm sending all the love, hugs and good vibes your way!!

Technically, Steve was well rested. But his body didn't feel like it. The muscles at the side of the neck were tight and the upper arm on his right hurt as if he'd been lifting weights all night. 

The shower had done exactly nothing to relax him and on every other day he may have felt tempted to skip it. But this was a work day and he was required to make a decent appearance, airlines still hailing their pilots and flight crews as walking billboards. 

And then there was Brock, too, so Steve felt obliged to be extra thorough whether he was in the mood for it or not. The generic citrus scent of the hotel soap clung to every last part of his skin as he put on his uniform, perfectly fitted and perfectly pressed. 

He closed his eyes one more time as he stood in the tiny entrance of his hotel room, his body dressed, his face shaved and with his hair fixed. The moment he'd stepped out of the room, he'd be on duty. Prepared to smile effortlessly, ooze responsibility and radiate confidence. 

Usually, it didn't take any extra effort. Steve wasn't playing the part. He was a pilot. Head to toe, with every cell of his body. He was Captain America. All of the hard work included, the hours, the responsibility, the weight of the souls on board. Benefits and bonuses unnecessary to keep him motivated. 

Today was different. Today he barely remembered the number of stripes on his shoulder and his last name. Today, he remembered what it was like to be just Steve, picking fights in back alleys in Brooklyn. Taking out his frustrations with the world on strangers. 

They've called him lonely and jealous and bitter his whole life. Envious of what he couldn't have. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. His best friend. Skinny kid, bag of bones, confused about his own desires, aggressive. Verbally, physically, sexually. Too aggressive to get laid. To ever find _l__ove_. They said that he needed to change, calm down, keep his mouth shut. 

Today, he was tired of Captain Rogers. 

Trying not to get lost in the endless darkening skies of his own thoughts he inhaled deeply, breathed all the way into his stomach and flanks and then exhaled on strengthening his shoulders. When he opened his eyes, his hand was already reaching for the door knob, one habitually insisting part of him always eager to head to work, head out into the horizon. 

People loved watching flight crews make their way through airports, some sleeping aura of past prestige stirring with their steps. Shiny black leather and the captivating clicks of heels. Neatly tied hair and impeccable ties under white collars. Children's eyes that lit up when he tipped his hat, noticing their looks. Their mothers blushing and smiling. Romance novel fantasies running through their heads. Gay porn plots running through the heads of the guys instead that stared as he passed, subconsciously licking their lips when Steve opened the lower button of his jacket with two fingers. 

He liked the attention. 

Usually Sam liked it too, but this morning he was caught up in his own head, his future and the future of his relationship. Decisions that were up to Steve. Unfairly so. 

The security officer didn't even look Steve in the eye as he waved him through the scanner, dispassionate and tired so early in the morning. Inevitably, Steve thought of Brock, the gloved hands and the dark hairs on his forearms. He thought of them again when he and Sam headed for their physical, a pair of raised eyebrows noting that his pulse and blood pressure were a little higher than usual. 

"Stress," Steve muttered with the physician out of earshot. Sam threw him an angry look as he caught it though. _Stress_ raised red flags. A stressed pilot was a potential safety risk. A stressed pilot was a liability. A stressed pilot was an unemployed one. 

In the pilots' lounge he checked in to get the weather report and the flight information along with the number of people on his plane. One of them was Brock. 

It was a rare occasion for Steve to recognize any of the passengers. Most of his friends, and the people he had spent some more intimate time with, were pilots themselves, first officers, navigators or flight attendants. This was different. This wasn't deadheading some crew to a different airport. This was different, because Brock wasn't used to flying. And because he was boarding on Steve's benefits. 

It felt different. 

There was a connection there now, one that Brock had asked Steve to never disclose. And if Sam would look too closely at the passenger list, he would find out about Steve's lie. And he would tell Buck about it. 

Fortunately, Sam was still busy with his own thoughts first and then later with doing a walk-around of the plane. If he'd noticed anything unusual before they've gotten to the cockpit he had kept it to himself. But as far as Steve knew, he had barely glanced at the list, had instead vaguely threatened Steve and his pending choices by checking out other long-distance lines and their regular pilots. 

It hadn't occurred to Steve that Sam could drop out of their little cockpit-partnership and still get the flights without Steve's seniority. All he had to do was find another pilot to buddy-bid with. 

And given that Sam was Sam, it shouldn't be too difficult. He was an excellent co-pilot. A very likeable person on top of that. A too rare combination in their airlines current roster. 

Maybe Steve's life wasn't going off the rails right away, but he felt those screws loosening and those chains snapping already. 

Steve yawned, stretched his arms out above his head before trying to shake some tension off his shoulders. This was going to be an easy flight. A flight how he liked them. The quick back-and-forths, take-off and landing under his control, no boredom in between. 

If it weren't for the request lingering between him and his first officer, it would be the start of a good day. 

When passenger boarding started, Steve thought briefly of Brock, even checked his phone, assuming Brock would have texted him if he'd had trouble with the boarding pass. Which didn't seem to be the case, so Steve enabled flight mode and tossed the phone into his bag. His concentration was needed elsewhere. 

Sam was his regular self next to him, just as Steve pretended to be his regular self too. They confirmed departure clearance with JFK's tower and announced pushback to the cabin crew, ground handler securing the towbar to move them away from the gate. 

"Let's get this going then," Steve said, when they were settled back and good to go, ready to start the engines. 

"Let's head home," Sam replied happily, but Steve's cheek twitched as he faked a smile in response. 

They hung out for an hour or two last night, avoided all talk of the job or relationships. Family. Even Bucky's name. It was ridiculous how hard they had to work to maintain this level of peace between them. Steve had hardly forgotten any of the words Sam had thrown at him, had filed them all away to reassess later. 

Now, he had to get this plane to the runway and then up in the air. 

"You want me to make the announcement?" Sam asked, once they were in cruising altitude, giving Steve a once-over. Steve's mood had Sam worried, although he wouldn't say so. He wasn't eager to start another fight so soon. 

"No, it's fine," Steve told him, opened the intercom himself right away so that Sam couldn't argue with him. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking," he said as Sam next to him huffed in frustration. Steve couldn't bring himself to care anymore. This was his job and he'd get it done. "My name is Steve Rogers and on behalf of my copilot and me I'd like to welcome you here on board for this short flight to Chicago." 

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, either at the gracious mention of him or Steve's stubbornness to do everything himself. Steve glanced over quickly, annoyed with the distraction and his copilot's attitude. 

"Remaining flight time now," Steve went on, thoughts all over the cockpit before he realized he hadn't even checked their time sheet in advance. Sam shook his head again to make a silent point about Steve's pretentiousness before he handed him the paper in exasperation. 

As far as Steve was concerned, Sam Wilson could go fuck himself though. 

"About fifty minutes, touch-down at approximately nine fifteen," Steve added, voice untouched by the tension between the two as he continued reading. "We've been told there's a clear sky over O'Hare on this sunny morning, so we expect it to be a smooth one. We hope you can sit back, relax and enjoy your time on board with us today." 

"You're really mature about this," Sam said, the second the intercom was off. 

"About what?" Steve asked, knowing it was an unnecessarily aggravating question. 

Sam just shook his head for a third time. Done with the conversation. 

Steve didn't care about the silence. Didn't care about Sam's stoic expression. They were going to get to Chicago one way or another. With some smalltalk or without. As friends, or friends in a quarrel. Every now and then people disagreed. It happened. And there was still a fifty-fifty chance Buck would take Steve's side and talk some sense into Sam. At least that's where Steve hoped he stood. Fifty-fifty. Like he always had. 

Now, he wasn't so sure anymore. 

Upon descending, Sam took over communication with traffic control, confirming clearance, runway and gate. 

"You should do landing," Steve said, already preparing to hand over control of the plane. 

"Wait, why?" Sam asked surprised at the last-minute change of heart. He knew Steve too well than to not be suspicious if he stepped aside. 

"Do you want to or not?" Steve just asked in return, rushing out the question as the decision should have been made about ten seconds ago. 

"Uh, yeah," Sam said a little hesitantly, before finding his regular voice again. "Yes, of course I want to. Taking over," he added and straightened his back. 

If Steve was lucky, he'd take it as nothing more than a friendly offer. A gesture of good will. For them to put the whole thing behind them. For Steve to have matured in the past thirty minutes. The truth was a little more complicated. 

With Steve as operative captain, he still had to sign the tech-log and the administrative report, but with Sam doing the actual landing, Steve could easily ask him to file those with the airline, giving him time to find Brock without Sam in tow. 

Sure, it wasn't the most genuine way to go about a hook-up, but he didn't want any of the drama Brock might add to his battered mood if they were seen together again. 

And Sam seemed happy enough for now, even smiling as he told the cabin crew to prepare for landing. 

Once they were down on the ground, he didn't even have to ask Sam to handle the paperwork for him. 

"Let me take care of that," he said, watching Steve put his signature down. "And you head home, okay? Don't wait up. Just get some rest." 

Steve nodded, didn't bother to fake a smile, because he knew Sam would be able to tell. He would always be able to tell the difference. 

"And come over whenever you want," Sam reminded him, not too worried about the lack of response. Even squeezed Steve's shoulder like he always did. 

Steve was about to head out, grabbing his bag before he turned once more to face Sam. "Good job on the landing," he said, meant it. He couldn't have done a better job himself. 

Sam nodded, small smile playing around his lips in pride. 

Steve made his way towards arrivals without looking left or right. He didn't need to be held up by colleagues on his way out. Not today. He dug out his phone as he walked, quick steps over polished spotless floors. He switched the network services back on to see if he'd gotten a message, but as the corridor led him around a corner and he glanced up he saw Brock already waiting for him down the hallway. 

Looking rough. 

Strung out and tired. Slightly sweaty and full of nerves. But smiling. Smiling at the sight of him. Throwing Steve off. 

He hadn't expected Brock to practically beam at their reunion. 

Steve nodded at him, confused. Just a couple of days ago, Brock had been appalled by the idea of being seen with Steve. Now he stood there, all cheerful and openly awaiting him. 

As he moved towards him, Steve involuntarily clocked the cheap jeans and the well-worn shirt, the dirty laces on his tennis shoes and the frizzling strings of his backpack. This was neither the Brock he knew from work, in his uniform, nor the Brock from Sam's birthday party, in his leather pants and the dress shirt. 

"Come on, let's go," he told this regular version of Brock, sparing himself another look. 

"Took you long enough," Brock said, thankfully reigning his excitement back in, then falling into step behind Steve. 

They handled the cab ride the same way as last time, only with their roles reversed. Brock made a noise when Steve recited his address, but didn't say anything else when Steve looked over at him. And Steve didn't care to ask, not with the amount of passive-aggressive conversations he had in the cockpit. Enough for one day. 

Steve let his body sink into the backseat instead, looking out the window, but with his gaze in a farther distance. "You had a good flight?" he asked absently. 

"Had a good pilot," Brock said after a small pause. "So," he started again but then fell silent for good. 

Steve nodded, thinking about his arguments with Sam. The fact that he gave up landing to be here now. With Brock. But right that second, he couldn't recall why. Wishing he could think of a better reason than a secretive fuck. 

In his periphery, Steve noticed the twitch in Brock's hand, glanced down. Surely Brock wouldn't be that naive. Wouldn't think it a good idea. Not after the way he had acted about them being seen leaving together last week. He wouldn't think it a good idea to reach out and try to hold hands. 

But for a solid second Steve feared just that, moved just that slightest bit to the side to bring more distance between them. He was relieved when nothing happened and Brock kept his hands to himself. 

Just like he'd promised, Brock paid for the ride and Steve didn't bother to thank him as he led him upstairs. He knew he should have. He hadn't forgotten about manners, he was simply tired of applying them. Tired of Captain Rogers still. 

His apartment was still as he'd left it behind, home. If he were alone, he'd stripped out of his uniform right away and be on his way to his bed, sleeping the past days off like a bad migraine. 

But he wasn't alone. 

So instead, he dropped his bag, slipped his shoes off and tugged on Brock's backpack until it slid off his shoulder, ready to get to business. Brock moved back with him until he was flush against the door, composed still as Steve put his hands up over his head and leaned in closer. 

"Did you fuck someone?" Brock asked, and Steve almost laughed. Of course, they'd have another discussion about that. "This week, did you fuck someone?" 

"No," Steve told him. patience running low. He looked Brock straight in the eyes, tired of this goddamn shit again. "No, Brock. I didn't fuck anyone." 

"Good," Brock just said, seemingly somewhat content with the answer. "I'm sure you could have," he added. Quieter. His own insecurities shining through. 

Yes, Steve could have fucked other people. Probably whoever he wanted. And maybe he would have, if he had been in a better mood. 

"Wouldn't mind doing it now," he told Brock, trying to get his thoughts back in the game. Other people's relationship problems weren't supposed to interfere with his sex life. Not when the person in front of him was single. He let his eyes roam Brock's face, gaze lingering on his lips, contemplating a first kiss. 

"Shower first?" Brock asked then, pulling Steve back. "I didn't really have a chance to-, not trying to take advantage, I swear. I bet the bathroom's nice though," he rambled and it took a moment for Steve to catch on. 

Brock did look like he needed a shower. And Steve would most likely enjoy the sex more if he'd let him. He sighed, realizing that he had miscalculated how fast of a fuck this would be. Or rather how slow. 

He should have known better. Based on their other time, he should have known better. Should have anticipated that Brock liked to take a little more time. Drag it out. No matter how low he thought of Steve, he still liked to be thorough. 

Or maybe because of how low he thought of Steve. 

"Through the bedroom," he said eventually, gesturing towards it before unbuttoning his jacket. 

"Join me?" Brock asked and Steve felt himself taking a step back out of reflex. It wasn't that he was opposed to showers, even two a day, and it wasn't that he was necessarily opposed to shower sex. But shower sex was complicated. At least in their state of relationship. With condom wrappers mocking wet fingers and lube lasting for fleeting seconds. And Steve was opposed to complicated sex. "Come on," Brock tried again. "It's just a shower." 

Before he knew it, they were naked and Brock turned on the water, eager to get his body under the warm spray. 

Steve was torn, thought about backing out for a second. It didn't feel right. Just loaded and unnecessary. Stupid even. He tried to remember if he'd ever showered with Nat in all those years they've been hooking up, but couldn't recall even a single time. 

"Alright, get in here, Rogers," Brock called then, tearing Steve from his thoughts and without any reasonable objection, Steve reluctantly stepped in beside him, hot water gently rushing over his body. People didn't fall in love in showers. Brock didn't fall in love with guys who had reputations like Steve's. He was going to be just fine. 

He still assured himself of that a moment later when Brock pulled him into a heated kiss, seeking more and more contact, but then pliant to Steve's wishes, to the drag if his lips and the way of his tongue. And by then Steve had forgotten what he was so worried about in the first place. 

Their bodies were soaked, hot and wet all over, and Steve felt Brock's dick stir between them, just for a rough second before he pulled back from the kiss in a sudden movement, so fast Steve barely realized it happening. 

And suddenly Brock was hugging him, just hugging him with his mouth on Steve's collarbone and his palms flat on Steve's back. 

Steve froze, still trying to catch on to what had happened between their kiss and now. Between the barely there erection and Brock's soft cock against Steve's thigh. 

"You're tense," Brock said, kissing along Steve's shoulder. Of course, he was tense. He was being cuddled while standing under the spray of his own shower, tired and irritated and dangerously close to falling out of his sex-mood. "You can't stand being held, can you?" Brock asked, if it wasn't obvious. As if it was a fucking crime to think a shower wasn't the right place for tactile exchanges. 

"No," Steve admitted, still stiff, still agitated, as Brock's hand made its way down Steve's back. All the way down to his ass, fingers parting his cheeks. 

"Relax," Brock said so quiet that Steve had difficulties hearing him over the sound of the running shower. He held him tighter and Steve tried to remind himself that he'd asked Brock over for exactly that. For sex. And that it was somewhat dumb to tense up the second they were actually heading into the right direction. 

And Brock, --granted for all the wrong reasons--, hadn't been exactly bad at this the first time around. When he'd filled Steve with his fingers, stretched him good, so good that he had to call him out later for being too loose. When he'd given Steve more than he'd bargained for when Steve had asked Brock to finger him. Somehow now, he was more than ready to get it again. 

Brock mumbled something else that Steve didn't quite catch, but he figured it didn't matter, relaxed his body into Brock's and buckled up for another strange ride. 

Brock brushed a finger over Steve's rim, breathing heavy over the contact before he kissed Steve's shoulder again fervently. He hovered there for a moment, barely touching Steve. Just letting him feel the anticipation. The build up before the breach. And Steve felt his cock swell and his stomach contract with impatience. 

He needed to get this show on the road. 

"This good?" Brock asked, still shy, unsure of himself, but a little louder than before. "You need this, don't you?" 

Steve nodded. His body ready, dick impossibly heavy but still filling out. He needed to get away from this fucking day. He needed to leave it all behind and lose himself in his head for a little while. Lose himself in the physical sensations. In the sexual haze. 

Finally, Brock started to push inside him, too fast at first for the lack of lube, water just wasn't the same, and then stopped immediately when Steve hissed at the rough touch. 

"You've been practicing," Brock said, obsession with Steve's tightness apparently still well and alive even after their argument. "A lot," he added, and Steve rolled his eyes. 

"That so?" Steve scoffed, wondering what it said about him that he still enjoyed the stretch as it was. Underprepared and too dry, muscle aching with the forceful intrusion. 

Steve put those thoughts to the side, tucked them away for later, knowing he'll be fine in a short while, body relaxing into the familiar stretch. 

But then Brock tried to push in a second finger right away, and Steve lost his breath entirely for a second. "Slow down," he said, forced those words out all at once. He needed Brock to take his time, and yet he didn't want to sound too harsh. He didn't want this to end just now. In another argument. Another lecture about his life. Words being thrown around that Steve could have hardly anticipated. Prepared for. 

"You need time to adjust?" Brock asked. He wasn't an asshole all the time. Waited for Steve to get used to it. Waited for Steve to get out of his head and into his body. For things to finally feel good. "There it is," he said gently, once Steve felt his muscles relax. His body giving way to a deeper pleasure. 

Steve closed his eyes, and for the first time since he'd stepped under the spray, let the water wash away the stress from work and with it his thoughts of Sam and Bucky. His pending decision of the flight bids. The thought of Bucky and Sam having kids. Be a family. Different from the family they were now. 

They weren't here with him. 

Brock was. Was touching him inside and out. Loosening the tension from within. Untying knots that had Steve painfully distorted. Had him crumpled beyond recognition. Now, he finally started to breathe again, regain some distant sense of who he was. Who he actually liked to be. 

His body unfolded under Brock's touch, opening up, yearning for more. Yearning for it all. Brock's fingers worked him like they knew him, longer than just a mere seven days. Worked him with confidence that Steve only knew from himself. 

The stretch was perfect, two fingers pushing in and out with ease, the drag of skin against his rim, sensitive and relaxed, water all around him, cock leaking or just wet, it didn't matter. Steve was ready to drown himself.   
  
The more his body adjusted, the deeper Brock went. Never letting Steve off edge, keeping him torn between just enough and that ever so slight bit of _too much_ that tightened Steve's chest and made him bite his lip. 

Steve could feel Brock tracing his rim with his thumb, and he knew from the first touch that he was going to put it inside him too. Of course, it was going inside too. Brock wouldn't deny himself. He wanted it from the moment he had first moved his hand to Steve's ass. Obsessed with how much Steve could take. Obsessed with how much he could make Steve take. 

Too many parts of his body had already been inside Steve. 

Not enough parts of his body. 

Brock held back for a solid minute or so, before spreading his fingers further to fit his thumb in between and Steve imagined it being his tongue instead, just as wet just as insistent. The stretch chased all air out of Steve's lungs, his pants filling his ears like stray drops of water, drowning everything else out. 

"This reminding you of last time?" Brock wondered, forcing his voice into Steve's head. Last time, when he'd put his dick between his fingers, thinking they both needed it. Or not thinking of Steve at all. Thinking of him as this pitiful person carrying around a useless hole to fuck. 

Steve shut his eyes tighter at the thought. _Never had to use two fingers before_, Brock had said then. _But they made it work._ Steve didn't want to make it work. He didn't want things to work out. He wanted to get off. Get off and find his way back into Nat's bed. Bucky's and Sam's. Find someone new. 

Torn between memories and the sensation of the present, he nodded again, giving Brock the answer he had been waiting for. It did remind him of last time. Everything about Brock reminded him of last time. Painfully reminded him of last time. 

"I'm not doing that today," Brock told him, splayed his fingers wider just to ruin Steve for another weekend. 

Helpless to the stimulation, Steve moaned, cock aching with the need for relief. "Okay," he just said, trying to calm himself as he spoke. "What are you gonna do then?" he wondered, falling forward into Brock's embrace before he pushed back, trying to get away from it and Brock's fingers deeper into him. 

"Looks like you're already doing most of the work anyway," Brock remarked, adjusting his grip on Steve and the rhythm of his fingers on the inside. 

"You know me," Steve started, breathless and fed up with it all. He was fed up with relationships. Fed up with other people's expectations. With Brock's expectations. "Can't stand being held," he told Brock and then started to fuck himself on his fingers with more precision. He didn't just want to get off. He needed to get off. 

Brock met his hips with thrusts of his own, seeking friction for his own cock, half hard and pressed against Steve's thigh. 

"Tough luck," he said, wouldn't let go, wouldn't give Steve more room to move. 

Steve didn't care. This was good enough for him. If Brock wanted him like this, wanted Steve spilling himself between them, then so be it. Just like he'd done before when they were still dressed, Steve put his hands up against the wall, Brock bracketed between his arms as he tried to find a firm stance. 

With the slippery tiles, the relentless stream of water and the limited space, it was almost impossible to move his body the way he liked it. To be fucked by Brock's fingers the way he liked it. 

"Let me," Steve started, body tensing up with the strain of their position. "Let me turn around," he asked somewhat desperate now to finish. 

"No," Brock insisted, holding onto Steve as if he was scared he'd fight him. Fight him and flee him. When all Steve wanted was to get him deeper inside. Deeper and more of him. "Like this," Brock added and then a second later spoke again. "Please," Brock said, causing Steve's thoughts to tumble and swim. Causing his stomach to drop and his heart trip, skipping a beat here and there. 

_Please_. 

There it was. 

Brock Rumlow pleading for Steve's body. The one he thought so worn out and used that he couldn't keep from treating him like a grotesque thing he wouldn't touch. Yet couldn't stop touching. Unable to believe his own hands. And his desire for all the parts of Steve he loathed. 

Here he was. 

Brock Rumlow pleading for Steve's body after calling him a _goddamn slut. _

Maybe sex was about power. Steve felt the rush of it now. Felt it in the tip of his tongue and soles of his feet. Felt it wash over him with the water and run through him like blood. 

"Don't hold back, yeah?" Brock asked, but his question was just another plea. "I got you," he said, barely more than a whisper. 

But that's where he was wrong. 

It was the other way around. It was Steve who had Brock and he felt fucking charged with the realization. 

"Fuck," Brock added, couldn't stop talking now. "You mess with my head," he told Steve, who drank up every last word of his confession. "You mess me up all around." 

Steve felt weightless and high, floating in Brock's arms, anchored only by his fingers, buried deep inside his ass. The ass that caused Brock to have an existential crisis. 

_Good_, Steve thought. _Good_. Let this untouchable body ruin you on your way out. 

Steve was getting close, noticed the early signs, the twitching muscles, the jerking hips, eager to race him to the finish line, and he braced himself harder against the wall behind Brock, let his arms carry some of his weight so he'd feel lighter on his feet. 

Without warning, either out of spite or because he fell victim to his own obsession again, Brock pushed another finger in, the initial stretch stinging and burning with Steve grinding his teeth. He was too proud, too pissed off, to show any sign of reaction though to Brock. 

"That for me or for you?" Steve asked instead, willing now to call Brock out on his bullshit. Enjoying it even. Enjoying the silence that followed even more. 

Brock just kissed more of his collarbone instead of replying, licking and biting the skin for a lack of words. A lack of arguments. 

"Yeah," Steve just said, couldn't just let it be. He wanted to rub more of it into Brock's face as his body adjusted to the stretch like it always did. Rub it into every pore of his skin. "Thought so," he added, wondering if Brock would let go of him now. 

And for a moment Steve swore he could feel Brock thinking just that. Thinking about dropping Steve right then and there. Unable to admit to his fucked up perceptions. And Steve wouldn't have blamed him even. 

But instead, Brock drove his fingers deeper, seeking out every hidden place inside Steve's body. Dragging his fingers over the sore rim, hot water not enough to soothe the chafing skin. On every other day, Steve would have dreaded the aching days that would follow, but not in that moment. In that moment, he remembered that he was used to it. The cuts and the bruises, the aching joints and the swollen ribs. A sore rim just a different pain from a different back alley fight. Here in his shower. 

So Steve let himself be stuffed to no end, not sure whether Brock was trying to make him come or trying to make him hurt. It all blurred within rough touches and the slide of wet skin. Brock's fingers thrusting in and out as if it was Brock's cock instead, his jerking hips not convinced of the difference themselves. Steve's body relaxed the harsher Brock went on him, the deeper he forced his fingers, the more he curled them to find the right spot, tormenting Steve in different ways. 

Steve lost his breath more than once, his body conflicted, instincts of fight and flight that Steve had denied earlier. Everything felt too hot, the water and Brock's skin, too tight around him, the air and Brock's arms. 

All that he wanted, all that his body craved, was to let go and hide away from the relentless stimulation. But Steve was too far gone, chasing his relief with no regard for casualties. He wasn't going to put on hold what he needed, the only thing he wanted from Brock. He was almost there, could sense the edge so sharp that he knew he was going to cut himself open going over it. 

Brock fucked him like he knew what Steve needed, like he wanted to give to Steve graciously. Selflessly. But Steve knew it wasn't true. Brock loved doing this to him, had begged him for it. Brock was just as far gone as Steve. Both of them stuck in their heads and their spite and their screaming bodies that told them to keep going when every sane thought would have advised the opposite. 

Steve trembled, flat out shivered in the heat of the shower, breaths stuck in his throat under a thick layer of helpless moans and his silent anger, as his orgasm finally hit, waves of pleasure and spurts of come over Brock's stomach. He barely noticed Brock dropping his hand, exhausted from his own frustration, barely noticed the emptiness over the relief, over subsiding pain he hadn't been able to fully comprehend. Pain that washed away with the mess between them, the mess in Steve's head and the mess he made of Brock. It was all gone, circling down the drain, another fuck neither of them could explain later. 

"Better get out of here before the water's running cold," Steve said, voice tight from his burning lungs. He didn't want Brock to get the idea he could fuck him in here now. Not like that. Not even when Steve had toyed with the idea himself. He was more responsible than that. 

When he dropped his forehead into the crook of Brock's shoulder then, seeking physical contact, eyes closed and carefully collecting more of his breath in the intimate space between them, he almost let Captain Rogers go down the drain too. 

He pulled back so fast he almost lost his balance as he stumbled out the shower, hands reaching for anything to hold onto. He didn't know who he was. Not today, not when he was tired, annoyed from the mess this week had been. But he needed to get a grip on himself despite it. 

* * *

As Brock wrapped his body in a towel, Steve stared at him. Trying to make sense why he'd thought the shower would be a good idea. Trying to make sense of why he had invited him here. To be with him. In some way or another. 

"I want to watch you," Steve said. In his own voice he could hear the mood he was in. But he doubted that Brock could. That he had an ear for it. They didn't know each other well enough for it. 

"Watch me do what?" Brock asked, frowning as he dried his legs off. Then he glanced at Steve with such nervousness that he must have had an idea already. 

"Get off," Steve just said. He stood still in the middle of the room, his body so used to this space that there was nowhere to look. Nowhere to move around and nothing to busy himself with. All of this was his. Everything in this apartment was purposefully chosen, nothing distracting within reach. Nothing but Brock. 

"Just me?" Brock asked, towel hanging off his hand, still insecure about it. 

"Just you," Steve confirmed. He took the towel off him and tossed it with the rest of his laundry. "Just you. On my bed. I wanna see what you like when you're alone," he added, Brock's own words echoing through the memory. 

"I'm not alone though now," Brock said, as if it mattered. There was no arguing about what Steve wanted. It was a yes-or-no-thing. Quite an easy decision to make. 

"No," Steve said, leaning back against the wall. Warm tiles against his naked back. Brock needed time, although Steve didn't know what for. He wasn't in a rush though. Never fucked half-heartedly, just to scratch an itch. "Now, I can watch." 

"Why?" Brock asked, taking a step towards Steve. He looked down at the pile of his clothes, deliberating what to do. Whether to pick up his boxers and put them on. Or just say yes to Steve's wish. 

"Cause it's hot," Steve just said. He really wanted to. Wanted to take his time and enjoy some live action from a few feet away. 

"Watching me?" Brock echoed, unsure of it, but Steve nodded. 

"And you getting to have me watch," he added, confident enough. 

"I didn't come here to jerk off," Brock said then. Quietly, as if he didn't understand. Not offended, as if he'd wanted more. Maybe confused over the thousands of different ways there were to have sex. "Came here to see how you were doing," he went on, even quieter. "To say thank you. I didn't even know how this just happened," he pointed at the shower somewhat helplessly. Picked the towel back up. "I just wanted to spend time with you." 

"It's a really nice bed," Steve just said, reached over to push the bathroom door wide open until his bed was in full view. "Fresh sheets." 

"I've never done this," Brock said, then realized how he might have sounded. "I mean, I have done it," he added nervously. "Just not with anybody watching me." 

It was a confession of so much more than just whether or not he had toyed with voyeuristic fantasies, and Steve made a mental note of it. Steve had, of course, touched himself in front of various partners. Certain practices leaving him with very few options if he wanted to reach some sort of satisfied high. 

"Come on, you haven't gotten off yet," Steve noted without pressure. Just dropped his gaze to Brock's half hard cock. "I'd be feeling selfish all day otherwise," he told Brock with a smile. It was true, he didn't like the imbalance of it. Hadn't liked it the last time they'd fucked, when he had been the one left hanging. But he didn't like it this way around either. Didn't like what it might say about him. "And you're still naked, so," he stopped there, threw Brock another pointed look, before letting his eyes take in every bit of skin, every last detail that he faked some interest in just to see if Brock would try and hide from him. 

If he could only stand their roles reversed. Of being the voyeur to Steve's object of desire. Staring Steve down when his back was turned. Like a true coward. 

He wasn't now though, just tossed the towel aside for good and straightened his back. Managed to withstand the urge to move, to do anything besides just standing there for Steve's visual pleasure. An entirely unfamiliar position for him to be in. His hand twitched first with nerves, then he ran it through his hair, like he'd done before, last time when he was worked up from Steve's mouth. 

"Lead the way?" Brock asked, but his attempt at making Steve turn only made him smirk and lean further into the wall. 

"After you," he said, holding out a generous hand to extend the invitation once more into his bedroom. 

Brock swallowed but then took a first step before walking past Steve towards his bed. Steve watched him, watched the muscles of his thigh, the way his hips swayed, accentuating his ass in the late morning light. 

As Brock hesitantly sat down at the edge of the bed at first, then scooted back carefully until he could rest his head against the pillows, Steve eyed up the armchair in the opposite corner. It was a nice chair, in a nice spot. Window just beside it, white curtains at its back. One of those chairs that belonged in a bedroom. Steve had never sat on it. Had sometimes put his jeans there or a shirt over the weekend. Never his uniform though, because it belonged on a hanger. No exceptions. 

It was the perfect moment to see if the chair had been its money's worth. 

"Make yourself at home," Steve said, made a quick stop at the dresser as he spotted Brock somewhat stiff in the same spot, almost scared to touch more of the comforter. It took some getting used to. A foreign bed when you're not supposed to be alone in it. But Brock looked good in it. In Steve's bed on pale sheets. He opened the drawer and dug out a new-ish bottle of lube. Uncapped it before he carefully tossed it onto the mattress. 

Beds were Steve's favorite places. Beds were where people were born and where they died. Where people cried from sorrow and cried from overstimulation. Steve liked his bed particularly. Liked his sheets. Pressed and clean. Changed them every week even though he only slept in them half of the nights. 

"You sure this is what you're into," Brock asked, toes curling over the fabric. It took Steve a second to recognize him as the guy who worked airport security. The same guy who had called Steve a slut to his face. To the back of his head first. Then to his face. With words just as pretty. How Steve had been _around_ and _stretched a lot._ Same as this morning, from Brock's eager hands, thick fingers without timing or patience. 

He settled into the armchair, not quite as sore as he'd feared but with that faint feeling all fingering left behind. Of being slightly rearranged. 

Slowly, he tucked one foot in, one hand on his knee while he stretched the other leg out to make space for a hand on his cock too. For later. 

"What's the matter, Brock?" Steve asked, knowing he was being an asshole. Was being deliberately cruel. "That looks painful," he added, throwing another pointed look at the cock between Brock's legs, thick and heavy, as hard as they get. He was visibly uncomfortable, conflicted yet aroused about the unfamiliar situation. 

"You never switch, do you?" Steve asked then, spelling out the obvious. If he would, this wouldn't be unfamiliar at all. 

"Are you gonna lecture me about it?" Brock asked, finally placing a tentative hand onto himself. "I just don't believe in all that." 

"All what?" Steve asked, trying to concentrate on the conversation with Brock's grip distracting him, wrapped tightly now, locked secure around his aching cock. Sensitive, probably, to the touch, as he squeezed around the head. No way to tell if he was wet at the tip, not from where Brock's wrist was blocking the view. 

"The gray shades," Brock said, voice blunt but breath sharp. "The spectrums, the fluidity. All that shit," he forced out through a tightening jaw, hand setting a rough rhythm. "Whatever you're doing." 

"What I'm doing?" Steve echoed, wetting his lips as he tried to focus on two things at once. He could feel himself getting hard again, despite the conversation, visuals too appealing. Too _right in front of him_. Too_ in his face_. Where words didn't seem to matter. Not when it was them. When it was Brock with his stupid opinions and his concerns of reputations. And Steve, who had words to describe desires. Practices. Acts. But had no words for how he felt. For how he didn't feel. Not like _normal_ people. Not like Sam and Bucky. Not like Nat. Steve, whose life didn't consist of life changing announcements, declarations, vows. "Who I am," he corrected dispassionately, caught up in the way Brock had brought his other hand down to his balls instead. 

"People have preferences," Brock said, fighting his own with no hole to fuck. Only his fist. 

"Other people," Steve said, his fingers twitching with anticipation. He was going to touch himself soon. "Not me." 

Brock huffed, didn't believe him. Of course, he didn't. He wanted Steve to be who he had made him out to be. Lost. And confused. Stuck in a phase. Steve couldn't bring himself to care. If he'd ever started to care he'd never stop. Too many people had too many opinions. There was no point in him explaining. There was no space for him explaining. There never was. 

Indiscriminate attraction. Individual experiences. Diverse pleasures. Indifference. Blurring similarities. Same old, same old. 

Steve liked what he liked. He liked people. He liked sex. Period. End of story. Details to be filled in later. Or omitted. It all started with a look, a flirt. Orgasms in between, for everyone involved. Rinse and repeat. 

"Don't you think you're kidding yourself?" Brock asked, slowing his hand and stretched his neck. Trying to get the upper hand. Of what exactly, Steve wasn't sure. Whether it was the conversation or the fact that he felt powerless being watched. Naked and exposed. 

"Don't stop," Steve said with a nod towards Brock's wrist instead. They were far from done. "Drop the knee," he told him, trying to get a better view. "Let me see." 

To Steve's surprise Brock actually let his foot slide over the comforter until he'd straightened his leg and Steve could see the entire length of his cock. Then he reached for the lube to get his hand wet. 

"Don't worry about making a mess," Steve assured him, he didn't plan on sleeping in those sheets anyway. 

A second later, Brock's fingers were shiny from lube and Steve bit his lip, reminding himself that those fingers weren't for him this time. Were wet for a different purpose. 

"You never play with yourself when you do this?" Steve asked, felt those slippery fingers were a waste if they weren't going inside anybody. 

Unfortunately, Brock saw right through him, tentative smirk on his face that turned into a sickening smug grin a second later. He held his hand up for a moment, showed it to Steve, head and shoulders sinking deeper into the pillows. "You want it instead?" he asked, and Steve regretted his thoughts. He didn't like unintentionally feeding those fantasies Brock had about him. Yet, here he was, tempted to say yes. 

But he shook his head. Knew he couldn't lie if he'd opened his mouth. 

"You sure?" Brock questioned him again with a teasing tone. He knew that Steve was lying, but Steve shrugged it off. Watched Brock tentatively move his hand towards his cock, waiting for Steve to object. 

"Seems like you're starting to enjoy this after all," Steve said, wishing he had thought of himself before he'd dropped the lube on the bed. It was too late now and he was too lazy to get up and retrieve the bottle. Instead, he brought his dry palm to his own dick, hard again, as if he hadn't just come those ten minutes or so ago. 

Brock watched Steve's hand and then mirrored the touch on his own body, slow, careful, easing himself back into the sensation. Getting used to it all over again. 

"You didn't lie," Brock said, breaths coming faster once more. "It is a really nice bed." 

Steve smiled but then choked on the thinnest laughter, twisting his wrist just a little too rough on an upstroke. 

"What if I like it," Brock went on, quieter, the sound of his hand on his cock filling the silence. As he moved faster, Steve slowed down again, prioritizing being a spectator to the main event. "Because it's you and me?" The words passed Steve by at first, as he stared instead at Brock's hips, the way his muscles contracted and forced his cock to drive deeper into his own grip. He got a good rhythm, a solid technique. Not how Steve preferred to get off. Too fast, too physical. With very little space for the drifting thoughts and detailed fantasies. "'Cause it's us," Brock said again, breathy and with reddened cheekbones. 

"I'd say," Steve started, concentrating on overlapping his memories of Brock's cock sliding in and out of his body with the visuals in front of him. "Don't ruin a good thing." 

Brock huffed, knee jerking with the urge to pull it back, gain more leverage for his thrusts. But he kept it down, kept it down so Steve could watch every second of Brock giving to himself. 

"You don't mean that," Brock said, cocksure with his dick in his hand and Steve's eyes non-stop on him. 

"No," Steve agreed then, couldn't help but relent. "I don't." For some reason, he was having a good time. After the mediocre night and the shitty morning, he felt coming into himself again. Here, with Brock. Both their refusals to budge an inch, still meeting in the middle for the sole purpose to get off. Both of them able to take it. The shortcomings of the other. The list of disapproval. Distastes. 

"You thinking of me fucking you?" Brock asked, upper lip wet from sweat, bottom lip wet from his tongue, fingers curled tight around himself, a perfect row of knuckles. 

"No," Steve lied again. He could still _f__eel_ Brock fucking him. "Thinking of watching you do the exact same thing you're doing now only with my dick up your ass for a change." He was insistent on purpose now, challenging Brock's hideous ideas about people's sexuality. About Steve. How he was just kidding himself. Just stuck in his ways, in need to find a perfect match. 

Steve stilled his hand, but kept it in place, paying attention to Brock, and Brock only. 

"How'd you do it?" Brock asked, determined to match Steve's pitch. "How'd you fuck me?" 

"Here," Steve said, without any second of consideration. "With just my dick, don't worry," he added out of spite and to piss Brock off. "Wouldn't want to ruin that good look for you." 

"You know what's funny, Steve?" Brock asked, glancing down to his fingers working over his cock, before he drew his gaze back up for some charged eye contact. "Denial." He gave his hand another careful look, before closing his eyes, settling back as he relaxed into the touch. He was close. Calm but close. Steve didn't know how he could tell. Or why. They've had one night together. And Brock had been different then when he chased his release. Rushed, forceful, angry. 

Steve opened his mouth, about to remind Brock that he was well aware of all the sex he'd had. Of the people he's slept with. Sufficiently aware of how his body worked, how much he could take and how fast. Where his limits were placed. How long it took him to recover. Vaguely aware of this _reputation_ Brock liked to talk so much about. That the only thing he was in denial about was the fact that he was a fucking idiot to invite Brock over. 

But before he had a chance to even figure out where to start, Brock's entire expression hardened, shoulders stiff, foot digging into the mattress. Pressure building, his body bracing itself for the unbearable stimulation, that one second of borderline pain before every last part of Brock's body faltered with relief. Frown soothing and mouth open, lips pliant and breath hitching as his fingers and hips forced the aftershocks out his wrung out cock with a stuttering rhythm. 

Steve had felt Brock go over the edge before, but he had never seen it. And for a second he was stunned at the sight, staring motionless at the way Brock tried to hide it from Steve. Stomach covered in his own release, but with his hands folded at the softening tip of his cock, palms covering the mess around his navel. Steve didn't understand why. Spite maybe, he thought, because Brock looked beautiful like this and Steve wanted to see it all. All of Brock. But Brock didn't want him to. 

Without conscious decision, body light and muscles fast, Steve stood, took a step towards the bed, two, three until the discarded bottle of lube was within reach. Then in his hand already. "Turn around," he told Brock, palm wet, knowing exactly what he wanted. 

Eyes blinking, then darting over Steve's body, Brock hesitated. Not quite understanding what was happening. But he moved, without another word, pushed himself up on an elbow and let himself fall face first onto the comforter again, then turned his head so Steve could see him. Eyes shut tight and tension in his brows. 

Steve got himself off, fast but not rushed, knee pressed against Brock's hipbone, controlled strokes and mentally already a couple of steps ahead. 

For no other reason than causing that slightest bit of pain, he braced himself on Brock's shoulder, held him down with half of his weight while he worked his palm over his length. No thought left of fucking Brock or being fucked by him. Every thought by himself, the familiar touch, like no other. Hitting every mark on every turn, every stroke just right, no other body a substitute to this knowledge. In that moment, he didn't give a fuck what it said about him. How much he wanted himself. How the thought of his own body, alone with his own hands, turned him on, unrestrained, and got him going, towards the one high he craved almost as much as flying. 

His self-absorbed orgasm hit him barely a minute later, shook through him, stomach tight and grip secure, and he finished in a couple of weak stripes over Brock's back, hitting the dip between his shoulder blades. Pushed his come up with his palm, burning hot and sticky, barely holding himself up, legs shaky and trembling, pushed it up over the back of Brock's neck, his tensing muscles and into his hair before he placed his tongue flat over Brock's spine. "Jesus Christ," Brock muttered when Steve dragged it along the same trail, the taste of his second orgasm so much lighter than the first would have been. 

It was his, --just his with that hint of lube from his hand--, he had barely any excuse left. He didn't do it for any other purpose than his own pleasure. The fact that he liked it. That he thought it was hot, that he was dizzy from the sex and wanted it in his mouth. Wanted to drink himself up. Brock could hide all he wanted, Steve couldn't give a fuck. His taste was fine, his was just right. Just right for that post-climax haze. Still hard but spent, still wild from the rile up but with urgency subsiding. Exhaustion lulling him in so sweetly. His was safe to play with. His was the only come he wanted to taste that day. 

"Of course you'd do that,” Brock said, trying to free the hand that had been trapped underneath his body. Wiping his palm on the side of the sheets with Steve panting over him before he settled on his back on the other side. 

Brock stayed on his front, face turned towards Steve, watching him. "How do you even shave when you're flying all the time," he asked, hand twitching like it did in the cab. He wanted to reach out, trace the smooth skin of Steve's jaw. "Last I heard razors and planes don't mix well." 

"Electric," Steve just said and shrugged. Closed his eyes for a moment, running his tongue over the back of his lips, pleased with his afterglow. 

"Of course," Brock just said, sounding annoyed. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steve asked, cracking an eye open to look at Brock. "You trim your beard, don't you? What's the difference." 

"I don't know," Brock started, rolled his eyes. "How about a hundred dollars." 

"Yeah, once," Steve argued. "Same as spending five every couple of weeks." 

"It's not the same," Brock told him. Gaze going far, over Steve's chest and towards the window. When Steve followed it, he caught a plane descending towards O'Hare, a beautiful sight. 

"It's the same," Steve insisted, without tearing his eyes from the sky. 

"To spend a hundred dollars at once you need to have a hundred dollars at once," Brock said, calmer now. Yawned. He wasn't in the mood anymore to fight either. When Steve glanced back, he had his eyes closed, spoke with a tired voice. "That's different from managing to put five down every couple of weeks." 

Steve nodded, turned back to watch more planes dropping beneath the clouds or disappearing above them. Kerosene scars all over the sky, fading as he watched. Watched with Brock's even breaths, until his mind drifted off and his eyes fell shut. 


	7. Chapter 7

Steve turned to the side, eyes still closed, somewhere between dreaming and waking when he bumped into Brock's body, way too close, breathing against Steve's shoulder, grumbling in his sleep before curling his fingers around Steve's wrist. Steve lay still, blinked a couple of times, trying to guess how much time had passed. It could have been an hour. Could have been fifteen minutes. He felt groggy, thirsty, had to pee. And he wanted to get away from Brock. 

He tilted his head down, so he could catch a glimpse of Brock's face, the blank expression, tired and worn out, once wet hair dried unfashionably against the pillows. Steve could only imagine his own shitty look. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of a palm, let Brock hold onto his other hand for now. 

There was no rush to wake him. Make him leave. Steve wasn't in the mood for physical contact, but he wasn't an ass either. A lot of people craved touch after sex, and Brock had proven to be no different their first night around. 

Steve didn't mind to hold back his own instincts a little while longer. Wait it out while he pictured himself doing what he wanted instead. Getting up, putting on the TV and his feet up on his couch. Pictured himself checking for left-overs in the freezer. Ordering Chinese. He wanted to check his phone, too, see Bucky's text messages piling up. He wanted to have a drink just because he could. 

He tried to imagine what other people would do. A person who didn't hate the idea of waking up next to someone else. Bring their foreheads together, maybe. Kiss the bridge of Brock's nose. Try to soothe the faint pain somewhere behind it. 

"You're already bored of me," Brock said suddenly, voice thick in Steve's ear. From sleep and the sex. It wasn't a question, so Steve considered not answering at all. Part of him was undeniably already bored. 

"You know I don't do this, don't you?" Steve asked, wondering if he'd had let Brock on. Romantically. Wondering if this entire thing was somehow his fault. If he should have said something sooner. He might have said something sooner. But then Brock had rambled on about Steve's history. His reputation. And Steve had somehow assumed any talk about his dating habits would be redundant. 

"Do what?" Brock asked, brought his face even closer to Steve's body, lips grazing over his biceps. 

Maybe it wasn't redundant after all. 

"Relationships," Steve started, but it didn't feel right. "Romantic relationships," he tried, still struggling to put a finger on what exactly he didn't do. "Love," he said eventually, knowing there was a chance that him throwing around that word so casually, so dismissively yet almost accusingly, could make Brock seriously uncomfortable. "I don't prioritize people," he phrased it then. "Relationships." 

Brock frowned, he still looked half-asleep, trying to make sense of it all. To collect his thoughts. He pushed his hand up into his face, fingers pressing onto the lines of his forehead. 

"Do you-," he started, pulled back a little so he could face Steve better. "Do you hang out?" he asked then, still looking like being awake cost him a great deal of effort. 

Steve smiled, the question amused him. The sheer sight of Brock amused him. "Yeah," he replied, nodded. "I do hang out." 

"Do you want to keep-," Brock said, breaking off. Steve wasn't stupid, so he knew exactly what Brock struggled to ask. But he wanted him to spell it out. Ask for Steve's body once more. "Should I leave?" he asked instead. 

Steve had to take a moment to realize the turn their conversation had taken. He had been waiting for something else. Was prepared to answer a different question entirely. 

"Let me cook you dinner," Brock added as Steve was faced with his own silence. Then he released Steve's wrist and rolled onto his back. "For getting me on that plane." 

"Pretty sure my fridge is empty," Steve heard himself saying instead of telling Brock that, yes, he should leave. 

"Figured you weren't the type to have things at home," Brock said, lazily scratching over a spot beneath his ribs. "With how often you're away," he added to explain. He was right, but it wasn't just Steve's job that kept him from filling the shelves. He didn't care particularly about things other people considered a vital part of life. Home cooked meals, family, love. The small amount of what he deemed bearable, he got from Buck and Sam. "I guess I'll even shop for you," Brock offered, determined to prolong this hook-up. 

"You don't have to thank me," Steve tried, wanted to relieve Brock of any debt he thought he carried. "More," he added for good measure. After all, the sex hadn't been bad. 

"Come on, you've gotta be hungry," Brock said, ignoring Steve's subtle objections. "I know I'm starving." 

"You can't just ask me that shit," Steve said then, he wasn't done yet establishing boundaries. "Like before. If I'd fucked someone else. You can't just ask me that anymore. Not like that." Of course, Steve was aware there were good reasons to ask these things. Reasonable considerations. Honest intentions. But jealousy wasn't one of them. 

Brock looked at him wordlessly for a long, stretching moment. "Then tell me you won't," he said then, eyes unwaveringly on Steve. 

"Brock," Steve tried, the name suddenly unbearably heavy on his tongue. As if he'd never spoken it out loud before. 

"Look," Brock interjected, didn't care about Steve's objections. Not that Steve had figured out yet, what he had wanted to argue anyway. "You don't want to date, fine," Brock went on. "It's not like I'm in love or whatever. Not like I have feelings for you." 

"But?" Steve asked, he knew things between them weren't as casual as he'd like them to be. Although he couldn't quite put a finger on it. Brock didn't like him, he was well aware. Brock looked down on Steve. 

"But," Brock started, but he hadn't thought this far ahead either. Then he took a deep breath, resigned to something within, briefly biting the inside of his cheek before he spoke again. "I just want you to myself for a while," he finished, his fingertips ghosting over Steve's thigh to make a point. 

The words only settled slowly, like heavy rain-soaked leaves falling onto wet pavement, violently displaced from their nature. It was hard to catch on. To the sentiment behind them. Steve wasn't for anyone to have. 

"Why?" he asked instead of getting outright angry straight away. He watched Brock from the side, all of his attention going into reading between the lines, catching changing expressions and making sense of them. He always had to. "Jealousy?" he asked then, spelling out what he thought to see. 

"You can't do it, can you?" Brock asked annoyed. "I told you, I don't have feelings for you," he insisted. A little too harsh for Steve to think he wasn't denying it out of principle. "You know," he added, moving a little further away from Steve, "just forget what I said. I knew you couldn't do it." 

When Brock rolled over to get his feet on the floor, with his back turned and naked and exposed, Steve thought about his come on his skin, in his hair, about what they did in the shower. How they always ended up here, the same discussion every time. 

"What happened with your family?" Steve asked despite knowing it was none of his business. It wasn't even polite to ask. Polite would have been not to ask at all. Now it was too late. 

Brock faced him, confusion written all over his face for a long second. Rightfully so. It wasn't the time and place. It wasn't a correct reply to Brock's hideous question. 

"My dad," he started then, hesitant and visibly struggling to find a way to talk about it. "He had an accident," Brock told him, looking down at his feet as Steve glanced to the ceiling. "He fell." 

Internally, Steve cringed, but held his body calm. Now, he regretted asking even more. He didn't want to know. Brock didn't owe him, no dates and no explanations. "Sorry to hear that," he said despite it. Trying to be polite now. 

"He hates me," Brock shrugged it off. 

And Steve wished he hadn't just wasted the one good line he was able to come up with. He desperately tried to find another variation of '_I'm sorry to hear that_', grimaced at his empty mouth, no words within reach. 

"He's an army guy," Brock said, taking Steve silence as an encouragement to keep going. 

"So he can take a fall?" Steve offered, hoping a small dose of darker humor would lighten the mood. It worked for a second and Brock laughed at the unexpected remark. 

"Unfortunately, he can, yeah," he added, torso back on the mattress. Head tilted backwards and with his eyes on Steve. "I used to be an army guy too," he went on, sounding almost ashamed of it. "My whole family is. Always was," he added, one hand coming up to rest beneath his head. He reached for Steve's thigh with the other, tracing the hairs as he spoke. Steve let him. "My brothers, all of my uncles. My grandfather," he listed, staring at the ceiling now too. "Handful of cousins." 

"You're here now," Steve said gently. They both were. Miles away from the city. Their families. "What happened?" he asked carefully, his curiosity slipping the question past his better judgement. But he had a feeling that Brock wanted to tell him. Wanted to share that story. 

"You don't know?" Brock asked, glancing up only to watch Steve shake his head. He didn't know a single fucking thing about Brock Rumlow. "Discharge," Brock told him. "Not the honorable kind." He tried to sound casual about it, but failed. Steve could hear it in his voice, the way his pulse started racing over speaking those words out loud. "It's not a secret. Not here, not with the forces. Not with my family either. People talk you know. They love to talk." 

Right. 

This time it was Steve's hand that twitched with indecision, the sudden impulse to reach out. 

"My dad, he couldn't deal with it," Brock went on, oblivious to Steve's helplessness. His aborted attempts to remind Brock of a better present. "Said he'd never felt more shame," Brock paused. Swallowed. Took a breath, tried again. "Don't ask, don't tell," he scoffed, tone turning bitter. "Sounds so simple, doesn't it? They never told us how hard it really was." 

Although still at odds with the complications of their entire situation, Steve finally decided to stretch out his arm, nudged a finger against the hand under Brock's head, ran it through the ends of his hair. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, some things, most things about Brock, starting to make a whole lot more sense. 

"He didn't give a fuck about me being gay, you know," Brock said, letting his eyes close as he realized that Steve's touch wasn't just a fleeting accident. That he wasn't going to retrieve his hand just yet. Let himself feel every second of it. "Only that I wasn't wearing that uniform anymore, that I wasn't going to serve my country." He leaned into the touch even more, neck straightened and with his head on the mattress, palm freed and open for Steve's grazing fingertips. 

"Was that the job you got fired from?" Steve wondered, willing to try and understand all of him. "The one you mentioned? With the rumors." 

Brock shook his head, slowly. Visibly hating having to do so. "I stayed in New York for a while, after everything. Worked all kinds of jobs. Transport, construction, at a goddamn gym," he said, lips parted as he tried to concentrate, tried to keep his thoughts from slipping as Steve brushed his fingers over the bare wrist. "Eventually, I got hired by a private security company," he went on. Though his story wasn't getting any happier, he seemed calm now, and relaxed. With his feet still on the floor, knees bend over the edge of the bed, thighs open, soft cock on his narrow hips, upper body all stretched out over the sheets. Steve didn't mind the view. "Two weeks later I was let go. For withholding the circumstances of my discharge on my application." 

"You're here now," Steve said again. "You can stay if you want to." He couldn't really put a finger on the exact moment his mood had started to change. But somehow he didn't mind the company now. Didn't mind spending this day with Brock. He wasn't going to spend it with Sam and Buck. That much was sure. "It'd be nice if you'd stayed," he said, meant it. Hoped he didn't send out mixed signals though. 

"Steve, I-," Brock started, tilted his head again, so he could look Steve in the eyes. "I know you don't care what people say about you," he said, voice low and tender but filled with a certain degree of resignation. "I know I can't tell you what to do. What not to do. I just-," he paused, moving to hold onto Steve, fingers curling around his hand. "But if we keep doing this, it can only be us," he added decisively. "Privately." 

"Look," Steve said and Brock's face showed that he had expected him to fight the idea. "We're not really good at this, are we?" he asked, wondering why Brock wanted to '_keep doing this_' in the first place. "I'm not good at this," he added, tried to stay closer to his own truth. "I don't think I'm the right person for it. For whatever your looking for." 

For a moment Brock just watched him, then showed just a hint of a smile. "No," he agreed then, "you're probably not. And neither am I," he went on, shrugged. "The right person for whatever you're looking for. The person you hoped I'd be," he added, but Steve shook his head at the assumption. It was true that Brock wasn't who Steve had thought he'd be. But Steve didn't have _h__opes_ about people. He didn't paint pictures about them in his head. "You still want to anyway?" Brock asked, his eyes on Steve. "Hang out?" he offered, bringing Steve's hand around so he could put his lips over each knuckle, kissing the first, but biting the next, tongue sliding between the other two. "Have sex?" he added, spelled it out onto Steve's skin. "Knowing we suck at it?" he finished, looking back up at Steve, but keeping his hand close to his mouth. 

Somewhere, in a different universe, Steve took the time to think it through, get back to his senses. Contemplate and use some simple common sense. Over there, he let Brock down easy. For both their sakes. Not in this universe though, here he just nodded as Brock watched him. He still wanted to anyway. 

"No hook-ups on the side?" Brock asked. "No one night stands? Men, women, I don't care. No one else. And if you fuck up, you let me know right away. No lies." 

Steve nodded again, didn't care about the growing list of demands. Unable to phrase whatever promise Brock wanted to hear. It took a certain kind of character to witness one's own decisions. Someone else's character. Because Steve was a million miles away from his decision. Steve was with his own requests. 

"No lies," he echoed, facing Brock with a little more focus now. "You can't have feelings for me," he insisted once more. "Romantic feelings," he clarified. "And if you fuck up, you let me know right away." 

Brock turned, moved his body closer, slowly, but no less threatening, shifting muscles in his arms and shoulders, and with a devious smile. 

"Don't worry," he said, face suddenly so close to Steve's. "Love is off the table," he added and Steve wanted to remind him that it had never even been on the table in the first place, when Brock kissed him, his lips taking every unspoken word from Steve, swallowing them one by one until they were gone and forgotten. 

* * *

"I won't be long," Brock said, lacing his shoes before he dug his jacket out from his backpack. 

"You sure, you don't want me to come with?" Steve asked, watching him from the side in just his boxers. 

"I'm a big boy, Steve," Brock assured him. "I can go to the store by myself." 

Steve took those couple of steps to where his uniform was dangling from the hanger and slipped a hand into the pocket, fishing out his emergency cash and his keys. "Here," he said, holding everything out to Brock. "Take it. " Brock stared at the money in his hand, not sure how to react. "You're doing all the cooking," Steve argued. "And shopping," he added with a smile. "The empty fridge is my fault, so it's the least I can do." 

Brock stared a couple of seconds longer, before he took the bills and shoved them into his jeans. "I'll make it up to you," he said, stepping up into Steve's space who expected a quick kiss, but was positively surprised when Brock dipped his head to press his lips against Steve's naked shoulder instead, lingering there. Just breathing. "You smell good," Brock mumbled with his mouth against Steve's skin. "Don't get dressed," he added and Steve thought maybe he wouldn't regret his decision to keep this going after all. 

With Brock out the door, Steve tried to keep his head busy, kept his mind from overthinking. They had talked. They were fine. This was just two people hanging out. Maybe having sex later. Nothing worth worrying about. He dug through his bag for his phone, patted down the pockets of his jacket and pants before he eventually found it, tucked between the couch cushions. He didn't remember tossing it, but there was barely any other explanation for how it ended up there. 

He had three texts from Bucky, but no missed calls, so he figured Sam hadn't overdramatized their fight. Yet. 

Two of the messages were updates on a second double date endeavor and the other was Buck asking about the flights, mentioning an unusually tight-lipped Sam. 

Steve could deal with that. Would deal with that later. First, he texted Nat, hoping there was a chance they could meet up soon. To talk, he had added, although he felt stupid doing so. He didn't even know who he felt the need to clarify it for. Nat or Brock or Clint. 

This was already more complicated than he had feared. 

Briefly, he thought about changing his sheets, knowing it would clear his head to get his place in order, but then dismissed the idea, thinking it would make him look too rude for his liking. 

He got himself some leftover juice from the fridge and moved over to the couch instead, yawning as he turned on the TV to catch some sitcom reruns and wait for Nat to reply. 

When the first raindrops scattered against the windows, Steve thought of Brock and felt bad that he hadn't gone with him. Hadn't thought about offering an umbrella. Just in case. Sometimes, in hindsight, he could be painfully inconsiderate. Annoyed even with the pressure to be considerate. 

Hopefully, Brock was already on his way back. 

Brock let himself in with his keys, startling Steve who had somehow managed to fall asleep again. He was used to a certain amount of jet lag and knew how to avoid it. Usually. Because rule number one was '_N__o napping before sundown_'. 

He let his head fall back, watched Brock shrug off his jacket first, then walk over to Steve on the couch. He smiled when he saw that Steve wasn't dressed yet, kissed him, with cold lips, cold hands, and damp hair from Chicago's fall. Steve was too tired to protest at first, and then didn't even want to when Brock's fingers reached his dick which stirred in interest despite the icy skin. 

But before Steve had a chance to fully get into it, the hand was gone, then Brock's lips from his and finally all of Brock, who wanted to get the groceries into the kitchen before losing more time on sex. 

Steve groaned in frustration, but Brock was already out of ear shot. He rubbed his eyes, then noticed his phone blinking with another message. It took him a second and a third attempt to unlock the screen, his own fingers still stiff and his eyes sensitive to the light. 

It was a text from Nat, saying she'd meet him tomorrow if he was up for it on short notice. Which he was. Obviously. He couldn't avoid Sam and Bucky forever. He needed to come up with a solution instead. 

Out of laziness, he just typed out a quick '_OK_' and hit send, forcing his body up afterwards to see how Brock was doing. 

Brock was-, he was doing something. Mostly staring down into one of the bags, at his own hands, a pile of groceries next to him, just a big load of chaos. 

"You okay?" Steve asked, suddenly feeling a little odd there, in his spot by the wall, in only his underwear as he continued to watch Brock unpack. He didn't reply, didn't seem to have heard Steve or even realized he had come up to the kitchen. "Brock?" Steve tried again, reached out even to still his busy hands with one of his own. 

"Yeah?" Brock asked looking up in confusion. "What's up?" 

"You alright?" Steve asked again. 

"Just thinking," he told him. Smiled then, back with Steve from where his thoughts took him. "What about you? You feeling alright?" 

Steve nodded, although it wasn't exactly true. "I've never had someone else cooking for me," he told him. Usually, with friends, he preferred to go out. Order in. Very rarely Nat and him had gotten takeout on their way home from the airport. "Not here anyway," he added, thinking of Buck and Sam who cooked. Not for him though. Not really. For each other. And he was allowed to join in. Allowed in. All the time. 

"Having second thoughts?" Brock wondered then, hands slowing down their effort to get everything sorted. 

"You're not going to ask for a drawer, are you?" Steve asked, trying to make a joke. 

"You think I have enough clothes to split them over two places?" Brock asked, laughing, while most of the tension left Steve's body at the sight. "I'm flattered," he added and Steve thought that maybe they weren't doomed to argue all the time. 

They ate first, started in silence but laughed later, exchanging all the unbelievable stories they had gathered over the years at work. Then Brock fucked him again, with Steve face down on his bed, as if he had to convince himself that he wouldn't ever get caught up in this. That no one before had ever found themself caught up in feelings they'd denied before. 

He didn't touch Steve any more than necessary, not like he did those other times, a week ago in his apartment or just hours ago in the shower. He didn't talk, didn't ramble, didn't praise. 

There were no complaints, no fingers tracing his rim, no unnecessary insertion that Brock had always deemed necessary before. 

He didn't prep Steve either, just told him to do it himself, if he thought he'd still needed it after before. 

Steve had worked quickly, efficient, tried to ignore any unreasonable self-conscious worry. Every word of Brock that replayed in his head. He wanted it to feel good. He wouldn't rush just so Brock would keep his remarks to himself. 

But Brock kept his mouth shut anyway, breathing heavily through his nose with every thrust, his hands keeping Steve in place. Slow, forceful at first, then faster, losing rhythm every once in a while. 

Just a regular fuck. 

Driving Steve crazy. 

"Talk-," he tried, rocking back against Brock's hips, "Talk to me." He really wanted to hear Brock's voice. Even if he had to listen to more bullshit insults. "Tell me why you wanted this," he said, out of breath, but he still tried to throw a glance over his shoulder, airways tightening with the strain. "Why you wanted this to yourself." 

Brock stayed quiet for a while, thrusts slowing down again and Steve put every last bit of his focus into his ears. Afraid he'll miss a single word. Whatever it may be. Insults and fake concern. Desperate pleas for Steve to change and grow up. Slow down and settle. He's heard it all before. The jealousy. The rage of entitlement. Of possessiveness. 

"I just," Brock said, then stopped. Words and body alike until there was nothing but silence between them again. "I just want to pretend for a while that other people don't exist." As he spoke, he finally touched Steve all over, up his spine and along his shoulder blades. A finger brushing over Steve's brow. But he held his gaze with determination. "That they can't ruin things," he went on. Quietly. Not sure if he was heading for the right direction or if he should take it all back. "With all that talk and the gossip. The jokes and the competitions." Steve didn't dare to move as he listened to him. Knowing now just what went through Brock's mind. What kind of memories. What kind of fears. "I know I'll fuck up," Brock said, more gentle than worried about it. "And you might, too. But at least it'll be us ruining this." 

Us. Not a word Steve particularly liked. But the sentiment, he understood. Could live with it even. For a while. 

He wanted this. Keep doing it. Although they sucked at it. 

It was better than being on his own. Better than third-wheeling relationships he should stay out of. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one took longer to write. As often with life, things happened.

"Look who it is," Nat said, watching Steve take those last few steps towards her. She was wrapped up in a thick scarf, her breaths all over the cold air. 

The sun was out, but the temperatures were still freezing and even despite his coat, a shudder ran over Steve's body and he regretted not meeting up somewhere else. 

"This your way of playing it safe?" he asked, smiling at her to make the question feel less loaded. He had a difficult time not bringing up their past every third chance he got, but he knew she didn't care. Shared the nostalgia even. Enjoyed the casual flirt with him just as much. 

"I thought you could use some fresh air," she said, two coffees in her leather gloved hands. No chance for an accidental brush of skin. "Some vitamin D and your favorite to go." 

She smiled at him and Steve tried not to stare. Maybe he hadn't gotten out that much lately, hadn't seen much of the days huddled up in his own place or with Bucky and Sam. Squeezed into flight decks in between hotel rooms. Sam's birthday that one night. And Brock's apartment. He hadn't felt particularly welcomed that past week. Wanted by the world around him. 

"Besides," Nat went on, grinning at him from the side, but only because she caught his hesitation, the changing mood. "It's not like we haven't engaged in some public indecency, right?" 

Right. It had been just as cold, freezing and they'd been quick. Just teasing at first, a hand all the way up Nat's thigh. Then he'd been more aggressive, had rubbed at her through skinny jeans, thinking it'd be sexy when it wasn't. She'd squirmed, though he had tried to shield her body from any stray gaze with his own. He remembered being hard the entire time. 

"Don't remind me," Steve told her, laughing at the memories and hiding his face behind his hand. "It was a dumb move," he admitted, remembering the way she had pushed him back by the shoulders when he'd try to squeeze his hand past her waistband. 

_'Don't be stupid'_, she had told him, taking hold of his wrist. Ready to twist it instantly if he didn't comply. He remembered being terrified that he'd gone too far. _'Here,'_ she had said then, stepping up so he had one foot between her legs._ 'Closer,'_ she had whispered and he'd finally understood. 

He'd kissed her as they've pressed against each other, bodies so in tune that it hadn't taken long. The come in his boxers cooling instantly, wet patches feeling twice as cold. Icy in the most heated places. 

"Pretty sure I experienced frostbite where no one ever should," he added, trying his best to keep his dick calm now. She'd always have this effect on him. 

"Come on," she said, nudging his arm with her elbow. "Let's go that way." 

They walked for a while through familiar streets and the smaller parks, sharing old stories like post-sex cigarettes. Each a little stronger. Each a little more hazardous for Steve's health. He missed her terribly. 

"Anyway, what's up with you?" Nat asked then, forcing a change of topic. They had steered into the past too deep anyway for a smoother transition to be possible. "You seem busy lately. Haven't heard from you much. Less than usual." She watched him from the side. "Or was that on me?" 

She didn't have to spell out Clint's name for Steve to know what she was getting at. He shook his head. Nat's relationship hadn't been the reason he had been out of touch. The only reason. 

"You know how it is," he started, holding onto his coffee a little tighter. It was hopeless, though, to cradle it. Keep it warm. It was already cold on his tongue whenever he took a sip. "Work. And then I thought I'd give you some time after the break-up. Was waiting for a good opportunity. Then Sam told me to stay away." He shrugged, somehow not sure how much of his argument with Sam he wanted to share. How many of his words. 

_'Don't think I don't know about the thing you're trying to orchestrate with Nat and Clint. _  
_Relationships aren't love dispensers.' _

"He's worried about Bucky," Steve said instead. He had wanted to talk to about the flight bid issue anyway. That's why he had asked Nat to meet up. Not to add what Sam had said about Steve selfishly latching onto other couples. Those thoughts would lead him straight back to tequila night, back to Sam not touching Steve. Not the way Bucky had. Back to whatever doubt Brock had planted into Steve. A nagging insecurity that he simply refused to acknowledge out loud. 

All of it would lead him back to Brock. To whatever agreement he was in now, with that same Brock Rumlow that couldn't stand the thought of Steve sleeping with other people. Steve sleeping with Nat. To his promise to keep things private. And although private didn't necessarily mean secretly, it was hard to tell the difference. All Steve knew was that it didn't mean openly. So Steve let it all slide. 

"He wants us to do more long hauls, so he'll be home for days in a row," Steve admitted, not sure what it said about him that he was so opposed to the idea. As a pilot and a friend. "Wants me to do the bids obviously." 

"That's fucked up," Nat said right away, giving Steve some hope that he wasn't the one at fault. "You're not going to do it, right?" she asked, turning to him for a second on a casual side step. In another life, he would have kissed her right then and there. In another life where she wasn't with Clint and he wasn't sick of what it would mean. Kissing in the streets and holding hands. In this one he thought about his thigh between her legs and how he wanted her frantic breaths more than the touch of her lips. "You hate flying long distance," she recalled correctly, pulling his focus back into the conversation. "Sure it comes with a job, but that's not why you worked so hard towards seniority. Why you stayed with the airline for over a decade now," she pointed out. In the past Steve had often toyed with the idea of leaving Chicago, job opportunities presenting itself almost weekly. In cargo or overseas. Rivaling airlines and private jet charters. No offer was ever good enough to take the step. Not even when Nat left. "Remember how we did nothing else for like a year just so we'd get those hours and be done with it once we made captain?" she asked and he did. Remembered how the cockpit had brought them so much closer over those months. "You're not going to go back to it," she stated then, leaving little room for counter arguments. 

"Do you think Buck's happy?" Steve wondered after a small pause. He should be the one knowing. Knowing if his best friend was doing okay. If he considered signing back on with the Air Force. 

"Last I heard, he'd started planning his annual Christmas party," Nat told him, tone light. She wasn't worried about him. "Even bigger this year. So I don't think he's unhappy. I think, he's insane." She smiled, but then her carefree expression changed when she saw that Steve was unable to mirror it. "He would have told you," she assured him. "If he was down. If something was wrong. If he considered leaving, he would have told you." 

"How'd you know I'm worried he'll leave?" Steve asked, bringing his coffee to his lips before he realized it was already empty. Feeling dumb, he tossed it into the nearest bin. 

"Aren't you always?" she guessed, causing Steve to falter in his steps. 

"Not really," he told her, convinced it was the truth. Buck was happy here. Happy in Chicago and happy with Sam. For years now. Since day one. There was no reason for him to leave. 

"I always thought that was why you set him up with Sam," Nat said. This time her words made Steve stop dead in his tracks. "You know, to make him stay," she added, staring back at him from those few feet it had taken her to realize that Steve had fallen behind. 

"Because only love could do that?" he asked, very poorly concealing his hurt with that sarcastic tone. 

"Steve," she said, smiling in irritation. "It wasn't me who set them up. I'm sure you had your reasons." 

"I didn't set them up," Steve corrected, "I introduced them." Surely stubbornly arguing about semantics would get his point across. 

"Okay," Nat said, backing off. Appeasing him more than believing him. "So you're not worried about him leaving. That's good. Because he's not going to." 

"Sam thinks he might," Steve added carefully. He didn't know why he was suddenly trying to argue that side now when two minutes ago all he had wanted to hear was Nat assuring him that Buck was okay. 

"Does he?" Nat asked. "Or does he know that you think he might. And uses it to get you to do his bids for him." 

"Jesus Fuck, Nat," Steve said quietly. "Don't you dare go there," he said out of reflex. Out of conviction. Out of loyalty. Not because it was that far fetched. "Maybe Bucky thinks he can't tell anyone," he considered instead. "That he's unhappy. Maybe he feels guilty telling Sam. And with how much time I spend with Sam, at work and down here, maybe he thinks he can't tell me either." 

"He would have told Sam," Nat insisted. "Bucky isn't the one to keep secrets." No, Buck wasn't. It was Steve who kept things from them. All the fucking time now. "Do you want him to be unhappy?" Nat asked flat out. "With how much you talk about it, one might just get that impression." 

"You know," Steve started, entirely fed up once more. I came here to get away from those accusations." 

"What kind of accusations?" Nat questioned. Her expression had changed completely with the surprise of his answer. 

"Forget it," Steve just said, shook his head. 

"No I won't," she told him, going from assuming he was in some kind of denial straight into fight mode. Her protective fight mode. "What accusations?" 

For a long moment, he just looked at her, trying to move his toes in his shoes to fight off the cold. To keep his hands still instead. Fight his nervousness. "That I try to insert myself into my friends' relationships," he said eventually. Defeated. 

"You hate relationships," was all that Nat said. It was very clear that she thought it was ridiculous to even spend one more second arguing about the sheer idea of Steve doing anything like that. She stepped closer though, nudging him by the arm again, trying to get them moving again. 

They walked side by side in silence for a while. Giving space to more private thoughts. Private considerations. Steve thought of Bucky and how he'd never seen him sad when they were younger. Of the Bucky that had returned from his last tour. Battered and broken, even if both of them had refused to accept it at first. And how long it had taken for that first genuine laugh. 

It hadn't been Steve who had made him smile that day. 

He didn't know what went through Nat's mind. Maybe she wondered if she'd gone too far. If she'd been too hard on Sam. Maybe she wondered why. Maybe because she, too, couldn't stand the thought of Bucky leaving. 

"Does Clint mind that you're away so much?" Steve asked hesitantly. He didn't know if he was allowed to talk about him. 

"No," she just said. "We don't have that kind of relationship." At first Steve had smiled at that. His own bias showing. But then something else crept into Nat's voice as she went on and Steve wasn't sure anymore if they were on the same page. "We don't have to spend every minute together," she told him, but Steve still couldn't place the tone in her voice. 

"What's wrong?" he asked, unsure whether or not she wanted to talk about it. Talk about it then and there and with him. Unsure whether or not he would be able to help. He had never been in this situation before. Not with Nat. The only relationship they had ever talked about was their own. Their non-existent relationship. Their arrangement. Which had ended a while ago. 

"Nothing," she said. Shrugged. Knew how it was bullshit and that Steve could tell. Anyone could have. "He's distant sometimes." 

"Distant?" Steve asked, trying to picture it. 

"Not distant like you," she said and Steve needed another second to swallow the insult he suspected lingering at the bottom of those words. "Like he's only half a person. Trying to pretend he's filling a whole life." 

Steve blinked into the cold distance, absently watched a crow fish something edible out of a dumpster. Wondered if he was a whole person filling a whole life. If anyone really was. "You worry too much," he told her, bumping his shoulder into hers. "It's not like he's hiding a second life from you. Or a second girlfriend. A house in the suburbs with a neat white fence. Or an old ranch out in the country that he fixes on the weekends. A wife and kids," he listed, knowing she could tell how much he hated the thought of it all. How his stomach turned at the domesticity of it all. Knowing it would amuse her to watch him try to physically twist away from the pictures he himself painted. 

And before he knew it she was laughing next to him. "You're right," she admitted, shaking her head over her own worries as she did. Hooking her arm over his elbow. 

He wasn't entirely happy to let her, but he knew it didn't mean anything. In all those years, she had never wanted more. And once she did, she hadn't wanted it from him. With him. She was his safe space. He never had to worry about Nat falling for him. He never had to worry about her misunderstanding his every action. Didn't have to worry about assumptions. About anger over rejections. Didn't have to worry about leading her on. And being accused of it later. 

Against his will, his mind drifted to Brock, who wasn't all that different from Nat. Brock was safe, because, to him, Steve was unlovable anyway. 

_'Some guys even like it like that. _  
_I usually have a different type.' _

To him, Steve was barely someone. Barely more than some thing. 

_'You need time to adjust? _  
_Bet you get fucked so much, it's become less of a thing.' _

Brock didn't want anything from Steve, because, in Brock's eyes, Steve couldn't give him anything. 

_'Need you to close up just a little, can you do that for me?_  
_You can't do it, can you?' _

"How are you going to tell him?" Nat asked, forcing her voice between Steve's recollections. 

He must have looked as shocked as he felt, fearing he had let Brock's name slip, because Nat held up her hand to assure him that she hadn't meant to startle him. 

"Sam," she clarified then. "How are you going to tell him that you're not going to do the bids?" 

Steve looked down, willed Brock from his thoughts until there was enough room for him to wonder the same thing. 

* * *

"Sam's still out on his morning run," Buck said two days later with his back towards Steve and his head half way into the fridge. "I thought you two always ran together, no?" 

They had, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Steve couldn't recall if he'd declined first or if one morning Sam hadn't texted before he headed out. 

"Not today," Steve just told him, dissecting his memories as he leaned against the kitchen counter. Surely, they had been out jogging together after that night. After their threesome. Maybe not that next morning with all of them being hungover. Maybe not that same week with all those images still fresh in mind. Past touches still ghosting over sensitive skin. It must have been later that things had changed. 

It must have been. 

Had it been later? 

"Here," Buck said, setting a glass of juice next to him on the counter. "You look like you could use some vitamin C." 

Steve watched the glass as if it would hold the answer to his question. And the question of why his friends thought he looked like shit lately. If he was incapable of taking care of himself after all. 

And wouldn't that be ironic. 

Steve took the glass anyway, sipping away as he walked over to the couch. He was already in uniform, ready to head for the skies once more. Papers were scattered on the cushions and over the sofa table. Printed checklists and samples for invitations. Mistletoes and sugarcanes. 

Hell it wasn't even Thanksgiving yet. 

And the bids for November were still open. 

"You're coming, right?" Bucky asked, coming up behind him. "And by coming, I mean actually on time." 

Steve nodded. Of course. "I'm gonna be there, Buck," he assured him, couldn't deny that small bit of nervousness, his stomach tense and his toes restless on the carpet with Bucky so close. Steve knew he wasn't imagining the sexual tension between them. It had always been there. Since he first learned what that phrase meant. Even before probably. Teenage boys trying to figure out their body. Steve felt his cheeks redden at the embarrassment of the memories. Both of them had taken longer than the average guy to figure out where they were heading with it. They had learned how to live with the tension. Pretend even at times it wasn't there at all. 

"And you're going to be there when?" Bucky pressed in a teasing tone, drawing out the question. 

"I'm going to be there on time," Steve corrected himself and when he turned he saw that it had left Bucky with a satisfied grin. 

"So when are you leaving?" Bucky asked, but it was only to be polite. Steve's flights were Sam's flights, and Buck knew Sam's schedule better than either of them. 

"Just after twelve," Steve said, committed to the same sense of politeness. 

Bucky nodded, bent down and started sorting the papers. Made room for Steve to sit down. 

"You okay, Buck?" Steve asked, because he had to. 

Bucky took his time to eye Steve carefully, figuring out what had prompted the question. "I'm fine," he said then. Somewhat defensive. "Did you notice any symptoms or something like that?" 

"No," Steve told him, shaking his head. "This isn't about that," he assured him. Some days he even forgot about Buck's history with PTSD entirely. "Just wondered, if you needed anything. Haven't seen you much lately," Steve added although he knew it had been his own damn fault, and not Bucky's. His own and Sam's. 

A second later, Bucky snatched Steve's cap from him and put it on. Tilting his head seductively to the side. "Could think of one thing, Captain Rogers," he said and grinned. He didn't mean it and Steve knew. Sam had reminded him just days ago. 

_'But we're not open.'_  
_'It's not what Bucky and I want from our relationship.' _

Steve smiled as he watched him, but the sight pained him. "You miss it?" he asked, grateful for the opportunity. Although, he wouldn't have minded spending his morning flirting with Buck instead. "Flying?" 

"Would you?" Bucky asked, cutting deeper into the wound. 

Of course, Steve would. He would despair from how much he'd miss it. 

When Sam's key turned in the lock, Steve didn't have to wonder about telling him anymore. 

Sam smiled, but the expression that had flashed over his face for just a split second had revealed that he hadn't expected to see the two of them there. Bucky in his PJs on the floor, surrounded by all his papers, and Steve all good to go on the sofa. Except for that hat that was sitting backwards now on Buck's head. 

"Did I miss something?" Sam asked, not sure what was going on. Or how he felt about it. "Did we get rescheduled?" 

"No," Steve said, shaking his head. Wondering if things would ever go back to before. 

Probably not. 

Not with his mind made up. 

* * *

For the first time in years, the first time since he made captain, the first time since they became co-pilots, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson buddy bid exclusively on long-hauls to fill their November schedule. 

And for the first time ever, after Halloween had passed, Captain America dreaded going to work. 


	9. Chapter 9

The room was dark, the city lights keeping him company, as Steve tossed and turned, wide awake in the middle of the night.

This fucking jet lag was going to kill him. 

Two weeks ago he had somewhat fondly remembered the years he'd spend with Nat, chasing hours in command on long distance flight. Had recalled only the best parts, then filed them all under bonding experiences. Now, he had no idea how he ever managed to survive that period in his life. 

He didn't feel outright sick, just _wrong._ He wasn't necessarily suffering, just annoyed all the fucking time. He was functioning, but it caused great effort. 

He was struggling. 

Fed up with his inability to fall asleep, he reached for his phone, ready to catch up on news and gossip and useless facts from the hidden corners of Wikipedia all night. 

For an hour he entertained himself by clicking one link after the other, music videos and soundtracks. He had forgotten just how much he liked listening to music. Discovering new artists and sorting new songs into old playlists. Updating his emotions too as he did so. 

Eventually though, he couldn't withstand the urge to check the latest baseball scores, trying to remember which teams Brock was rooting for. He was just about to give up when a text notification popped up at the top of the screen. 

From Brock 2:13AM  
u up in the air?

Steve snorted at the cheesy line. He was in the mood for a little communication. 

To Brock 2:14AM  
Home actually. In bed. 

Just a second later, the reply arrived. And a string of new messages afterwards. 

From Brock 2:14AM   
cant sleep? 

From Brock 2:14AM   
its a nice bed. 

From Brock 2:14AM   
been thinking about it. 

From Brock 2:15AM  
you never called. texted. been waiting to see you. 

Steve was still smiling over the remark on his bed, when that last text hit him like a punch in the jaw. 

It had been a while since Brock was right there with him. In his bed. Inside him. Too long, on that they would agree. However, the thought of Steve being obligated to call made his insides turn. He hadn't been capable, even if he'd wanted to. 

He was busy trying to get by without complaining. He didn't want to ever hold his decision against Sam. Against Sam who was happier these days. And Bucky who seemed happier too. But Steve needed time to get used to this. More than he'd thought. Time to adjust. 

And the thought of sex had been the first thing his mind had ditched to make room for insomnia and horrible mood swings. 

Steve was well aware of that fact, painfully aware, as he barely felt like he fit in his own skin anymore. 

He couldn't remember the last time he was in the mood for even just a flirt, and those rare times he was relaxed enough to get a hand around himself, he'd passed out even before he was fully hard. 

The way Brock had talked about night shifts, Steve would have expected him to understand. 

To Brock 2:16AM   
Just FYI, it's 2 in the morning. 

He was tired now, and his eyes hurt, and he was just about to drop his phone off at his nightstand to charge when Brock's reply appeared. 

From Brock 2:16AM   
nevermind. 

Alienating him wasn't what Steve had intended, but rereading his own message he could see how the misunderstanding came to be. 

Part of Steve wanted to leave it at that still, out of spite, but another ached to be touched. To be seduced. Prayed for someone else, skilled enough to coax that mood out of him. For someone to give back to him those captivating moments. Breathe life into his functioning shell. Some magic even. 

And let him peacefully drift off finally afterwards. 

To Brock 2:18AM  
reschedule? for 2 in the afternoon? 

It was worth a try. 

A shot in the dark. A failed attempt. 

His phone lay deadly still next to him all night. Blinking lights only at the tip of the wings of those planes passing over the city. 

Steve counted them until he fell asleep. 

* * *

With how exhausted he had been, he didn't expect it to be just after seven as he woke up again, restless and hungry and with a terrible headache. 

He hadn't forgotten about his unanswered text to Brock, but all morning he tried to pretend otherwise. 

Brock didn't owe him. 

Brock didn't even like him. 

_'What if I like it, 'cause it's us.'_

But they weren't. 

And he didn't. 

And Steve had to find a way to step up for himself. Get his head right and fix his dick. He wasn't old enough yet to let his job ruin his life. 

Jesus, when did he let his job ruin his job. The one he loved. 

The only thing he loved. 

He was face down on his couch and knee deep into what he hoped would be some form of seasonal depression, bound to disappear with the passing time, when his phone buzzed in his palm. 

For a second he jumped in confusion, assuming he'd drifted off and it was his alarm going off. 

It wasn't. It was a message from Brock. With the answer he didn't owe Steve. 

From Brock 10:34AM   
coming over in 5. sorry. please don't say no. 

From Brock 10:35AM  
please. 

Steve stared at his phone, trying to muster up an emotion. Any really. But none came to mind. None came to heart. 

So he figured, it didn't matter. 

To Brock 10:39AM   
Okay then. I guess this is another emergency? 

He was still waiting on his phone to present him with an explanation when his door buzzed instead. 

Not a minute later Steve stared at a fourth version of Brock. Not the guy from work that Steve had been desperate to flirt with. Nor his dressed up version of Sam's birthday. Or the dressed down guy waiting at the gate's exit. If someone had asked Steve to manifest his jet lag into physical form, this version of Brock would have been pretty damn close to it. 

He looked freezing cold and was shivering beneath a stained shirt. He looked like he hadn't slept in days and although it changed his entire face, Steve felt solace in seeing his own misery mirrored in the guy he fucked these days. Or rather, the guy he had been fucking last month. Whatever time was doing to them, it wasn't fair. 

Between them, Brock showed Steve his phone, his hand trembling and Brock didn't even try to hide it. "Can I use your charger?" he asked, and Steve recognized his own lost hope in his eyes. "And can I use your shower?" he wondered too, just as Steve took the phone from his hand. 

It wouldn't be the first time. 

It wouldn't be the first time for that shower to turn into sex. 

It wouldn't be the first time Steve was better off allowing him to make use of his bathroom. 

He wasn't particularly eager to let this dumpster version of Brock fuck him. Fuck this dumpster version of himself. 

Yeah, he was better off getting into that shower with him. 

"And can we go over to mine to feed my cat?" Brock went on, didn't bother to give Steve time to process any of it. "Feed Crossbones and then maybe catch up on some sleep?" 

Like Pavlov's dog, Steve perked up at the mention of sleep. His bed was nice, but Brock's had been just fine, if he remembered correctly. So far, all of it seemed to make sense in some weird surreal state. Steve could use a shower and some fresh air. He could use some rest. Clear out some space in his head so that thoughts of sex could move back in. 

"Have sex?" Brock suggested that same second. "Like we said we would? But like-," he paused, watching Steve as he bit his lip for a quick second. "Any way you want." 

Any way he wanted. 

Any way Steve wanted. 

But Steve could barely describe what sex even looked like. Could barely think of images, ideas, fantasies that made sense to him. Aroused him. There was a faint muscle memory, technicalities to be dealt with. But he didn't know what he'd enjoy. What he'd like to share with Brock, experience together. What kind of memories he'd like to stash for solo sessions. He had no idea what he wanted. 

Apart from the fact that he wanted to be with Brock. 

That he didn't want to be alone. 

That he wanted Brock to touch him. Reach through whatever was blocking him from connecting. With himself. With the world. He wanted Brock to rewrite him. With whatever he wanted he could want from him. 

If Steve wasn't Steve. 

He wanted Brock to set him straight. 

Erase those gray areas. 

Fill those empty spots. 

Slap another ugly label onto him. 

Any of them better than having none. 

He was tired of lacking, lacking any distinct attraction, lacking romantic aspirations, lacking love, with nothing to put in its place. 

_'I know I'll fuck up and you might, too.' _

Steve watched Brock for another second, both of them staring helplessly at the other, searching for a soothing perspective in all the wrong places. Then he glanced down, turned the phone over in his hand to check the port before he stepped aside to let Brock in. 

_'At least it'll be us.' _

Steve hadn't expected to invite a tense silence in along with Brock, quiet nervousness filling the room, squeezing past the dull pressure in Steve's ear, past his hissing headache. 

"I know I'm a mess," Brock admitted, looking anywhere but Steve in the eye. "You don't have to say it." 

"I wasn't going to," Steve assured him. In fact, he would have liked to not talk at all. Every word feeling twice as loud. If Brock was worried about unnecessarily cruel comments, he had to look in the mirror. "You alright?" Steve asked still. Working out how he ended up here with Brock standing right there, in the middle of his apartment, looking like he'd been to hell and back. 

The text, the way he looked, the expression on his face. Tired but tense. His body shaking to find relief between conflicting states. And part of Steve was already worrying about Brock while the other considered valid excuses to just sent him on his way home. 

"Thanks," Brock said, barely audible. Knowing he was on thin ice. "For this." 

"It's nothing," Steve said, though even he could tell that it wasn't nothing. That it was something. Meant something to Brock. 

"I'm sorry," Brock apologized, head down and fumbling with his own fingers. Steve glanced down to the phone in his hand. Surely Brock felt its ghost in his palm. 

"What for?" Steve asked, eyes back up. Brock wasn't much to look at today, but neither was Steve, still feeling like shit, and yet something about Brock made him feel less shitty. Invoked some inexplicable humor in him. The way they were standing here now. 

After everything. 

It spoke of their individual self-worth more than human kindness. For everything they disagreed upon, they were on the same page about one thing though. The inability to say no when it came to the other. 

Surely, that couldn't be healthy. 

"Last night," Brock said, interrupting Steve's thoughts. "I wanted to be here with you. I was trying to flirt and I was trying to end up here for sex." 

Steve watched him with no idea where his speech was going. Of course, he had figured that Brock had wanted just that. And usually, Steve would have been more enthusiastic. Even at two in the morning. But he barely felt anything these days. Barely felt anything now. 

"Today," Brock started again. "Today, I'm hungover and I feel like shit and I can't imagine it living up to anything we did before." He stepped from one foot to the other, making Steve's headache worse with words and stance alike. "To anything you did before. Anyone." 

Steve tried to muster up some surprise. Some offense even. How Brock couldn't let it go. Not for one single day. The thought of Steve sleeping with other people. A guy in his forties should know better than to dream of modesty and virgins. 

"I'll go charge this," Steve muttered. Tapping a finger against Brock's phone, while he was already halfway turned and on his way to his bedroom. 

Leaving his bathroom to Brock, Steve sat down on his bed, thinking about the people he'd been with. Flipping through is memories, trying to find one to bring him back to life. But his brain was set to skip them all, pulled up images of Brock's bedroom instead. His fascination with Steve that first night. His irritation. His praise. 

He wanted to hear it again. 

For the first time in years, he hesitated, his own nakedness suddenly so unfamiliar. His body like a stranger to him, its desires unknown. Impossible to unlock. 

Steam clung to the glass of the shower cabin, to the tiles and the air. Brock stood motionless under the stream, startled only when Steve had already one foot in. But he didn't say anything. Just made some more room for Steve to come up behind him. 

Steve didn't know how to ask for it, although he usually didn't struggle with it. He wanted Brock to call him beautiful again. A masterpiece. Too good to pass on. 

But Brock just put his palm over his cheekbone and his lips on Steve's, telling him, maybe, those same things without words. But words was what Steve needed. 

Brock's hands were all over Steve, one of them making its way down Steve's arm, the way it had made its way down his back in the past. Loaded with meaning, with anticipation, with fear of rejection. 

But Steve wasn't in the mood for rejection. Allowed Brock to hold his hand, knowing he needed his things as much as Steve needed his. 

Though he didn't say any of those things he had said that first night, Brock kissed him in the same manner. Too much pressure and too much tongue. A little inexperienced. Out of practice. 

Maybe one of those things he needed too. Or needed to figure out. 

Steve wasn't in the mood to teach anyone. Assert his own style. Force his taste onto other people. 

He was tired of his own ways. Of not recognizing himself. Tired of not knowing what to do. Tired of doing nothing. So when Brock broke the kiss, Steve just let his head fall onto his shoulder, the muscles in his neck numb from the ever same tension all week. 

"What's wrong?" Brock wondered. Steve had to gather all his focus once more to make his words out over the shower stream. "You're not yourself." 

He wasn't. Steve knew and he didn't need to be reminded. He didn't want to explain himself. Justify what he had done to himself. For Sam. For Buck. People that weren't him. 

"This your way of punishing me?" Brock asked, his words angry but his tone wasn't. He held Steve close, both of them knowing he couldn't stand it. 

"For what?" Steve asked back, dropping his question into the crook of Brock's shoulder. He wasn't in the mood for punishing anyone either. 

"For what I said in the past," Brock told him. It was clear what he was getting at, but Brock still felt the need to spell it out. "Those things about you. That you're too much. Too loose. Been with too many guys. People," he corrected himself. It was better than nothing. "Are you toning it down now just so I'll admit I liked it better before? Pretending not to care when we don't fuck and all that. Being quiet. Pliant. Allowing me to do that," he said. Out the corner of his eye, Steve could see him glance down to where they're hands were still holding onto each other. His fingers tightening around Steve's. 

It all took a while to sink in and even then Steve could barely make sense of it. Frowned. His head hurting from the effort. "What?" he asked, pulling away and stepping back to face Brock.

But all Brock did, was let his eyes roam Steve's body, checking him out, head to toe. Was he still looking too good to pass on? 

He didn't feel like it. 

He felt ugly for the first time in twenty years. 

"It's not you," Brock said then. Annoyed. "If you need to hear it, fine. I liked you better before," he told Steve. Admitted. "You being you. Too much and too loose and with all that baggage. Untamed," he said, almost pained. "I like that better. You wanting something from me. Not just letting me, but wanting me. Me," he stressed again. "When you could have anyone." 

"I'm not doing that," Steve tried somewhat helplessly. Still sorting through all that information in his head. "Punishing you," he added, remembering why he had come here in the first place. Why he'd taken off his clothes and stepped into the shower. 

For Brock to say things. Nice things. Other things. Not these things. 

"Let's go feed your cat," he told Brock, done with the shower. Done with praise from Brock's mouth. 

* * *

Steve carefully followed Brock through the tiny hallway to his kitchen, one of the rooms he hadn't been in before. 

From the doorway, he watched Brock open a can of catfood, watched him run his fingers over his cat's back before he filled her bowl. 

He looked better now. Had started looking better the second he'd dried off his hair. Had looked better after they've gotten coffee on their way down to the station. At the same small place that had granted Steve refuge during all kinds of jet lags through the years. Those mild irritations after crossing the Atlantic. And those severe displacements when he'd returned from Cape Town, from Melbourne, from Dubai just last week. 

He'd started looking better on the bus, as Steve's headache faded and Brock had started to relax. Started looking a little more like that guy Steve had been so into at Sam's birthday party. 

The guy who liked him better before. With all his baggage. And untamed.   
Liked him better the way Steve liked himself better. 

Who liked Steve. 

When he wasn't fucking depressed. 

Who noticed that he was fucking depressed. 

Who cared that he was fucking depressed. 

The guy Steve had called _great_ once. 

These days he was cheap with praise himself. And now Steve felt the urge to explain himself after all. 

"Those past weeks, work has been rough," he started. Explained. "I'm on a different schedule, been flying long distance mostly," he lied. Played it down. Then didn't know why and decided to tell the truth. "All of the flights were long distance. And I'm not adjusting that well. I've been jet lagged." He wondered briefly if Brock had ever experienced jet lag like this. The constant torture of body and mind, not enough time between flights to get settled again. Then he remembered what Brock had said about working shifts. Working night shifts. What it did to his body too. How much he hated it. "I've not been myself, like you said. I've been trying to ignore it. But it all came crashing down sooner than I hoped." 

Saying it felt like a relief. Admitting out loud that he had underestimated the strain and the pressure of his new schedule. That he had overestimated his ability to just suck it up and walk it off. 

He wanted to thank Brock, for listening, for calling him out. Asking what was wrong. In the only way he could. The only conclusion he could come up with. Not knowing about the bids and the decision Steve had made. 

But Steve didn't have a chance to find the right words. 

"I fucked up," Brock announced instead. Rushed and tensing up again. "I fucked up, because it was supposed to be just us, but I kissed someone else." Steve frowned as Brock hid his face behind his hands. It wasn't any easier to keep up with him here as it had been in the shower. "A friend. But it didn't mean anything. I let someone else touch my ass too though," he went on and Steve's frown soothed out as he raised his eyebrows over the confession. "A friend too. But it didn't mean anything either," Brock assured him. 

Steve wondered what he was supposed to feel. Jealousy, surely. Betrayal, maybe. Anger or disappointment. But he just liked that Brock was telling him. Coming down from his high horse. Putting it all out there. 

"And I fucked up," Brock added, sounding even more nervous now. "Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because I feel things," he told Steve. "For you." Knowing it was the one thing Steve asked him not to. "And I want to say that it doesn't mean anything," Brock tried, "but, to be honest, I don't know what it means."

From experience, Steve knew what he was supposed to feel now. Pressured and accused. Stressed. Guilt-tripped and guilty all the same. Ashamed. Lacking that one emotion. Insignificant to him, but to others, the one thing making him the bad guy. Always. In all of the stories, all of his relationships. Arrangements. 

"That's-," Steve stammered, because he didn't feel any of those things now. He still felt that same sense of positive indifference. The okay-ness of it all. Still liked that Brock told him, had put more of it out there. "That's a lot to take in," he said. To Brock. To himself. 

"I wasn't thinking," Brock went on, still not finished. It was still okay with Steve. "Last night, I wasn't thinking," he explained. "I wasn't thinking much this morning either. All I knew was that I wanted to get away from them and be with you. I want to be with you most of the time." 

Steve listened into his own, wondered how much of these confessions he could take. But it was still alright. It wasn't the worst thing that Steve could think of anymore. They've had bigger issues to sort than that. 

"And now?" Steve wondered, feeling a little more like himself. Made himself more comfortable in his spot. Watching Brock with some regained curiosity.

"Now?" Brock echoed, confused. 

"Are you thinking now?" Steve clarified. Eyes still on Brock. He liked looking at him. He liked him. He liked the thought of them being friends. Sleeping together. Doing what they'd been doing in the future too. 

"I'm-," Brock started, but then cut himself off. Looked at Steve defeated. "Don't be like that," he said instead. "Please don't be like that." 

"Stunned?" Steve offered. Allowing himself that smile that had been building for a bit. He wasn't feeling angry or betrayed. Jealous or hurt. Accused and cornered. He felt free. 

Brock didn't expect much of him, if anything at all. All he wanted was for Steve to want him back. 

And he did. 

"You're impossible to read," Brock said, coming closer. "Someone ever told you that?" 

"Someone once told me I'm overwhelming," Steve reminded him. Eager to tease. "Does that count?" he asked, feeling the temptation to flirt for the first time in weeks. 

"I'm sorry," Brock said again. All the way up in Steve's space now. But he still didn't feel cornered. He felt revived. Brock dipped his head down, headbutting Steve's chest. Then kissed him between neck and jaw. Steve's skin soaking it up like a plant that hadn't been watered in a while. "I'm sorry for saying that. And for fucking up like that," he apologized again, lips still grazing over the skin as he spoke and Steve closed his eyes to revel in the sensation. "I'm sorry for that too," Brock said once more, kissed Steve again, right below his chin. 

It wasn't enough. 

He wanted Brock's mouth on his own terms, his lips and his tongue. Make up for his shabby excuse of a kiss in the shower. He wanted to give to Brock and collect in return. Part of Steve coming back to life. The part he'd missed most. That part that knew how to use his body. Make use of every last part. 

And every last part of him wanted Brock. Wanted to take Brock. Any way he wanted. 

Still tangled up in a heated kiss, Steve pushed him back into the doorframe, too hard, and he winced just as Brock did, feeling sorry for that loss of control. 

"Don't stop," Brock told him though, pulled Steve even closer. 

"You smell good," Steve said, longing to take more of Brock inside him. The scent in the air up his nose and the taste of his tongue down his throat. Fingers and cock past his rim like he'd never complained about it. 

It was okay if it was Brock. 

He wouldn't say no if it was Brock. 

"It's all you," Brock said, but it wasn't. 

"Even better," Steve replied, but it wasn't either. 

It was best when it was both of them. 

"You're not overwhelming," Brock said then, quietly. Wouldn't let Steve pull back or move away. Not that he wanted to. "I've just been weak." 

Steve stood motionless as a shiver ran down his spine. He had wanted to be praised, regain some confidence. This was different. This wasn't about him, but it felt like it was about him. It was Brock admitting to something no one had asked him to. It was Brock setting free Steve from all his expectations. His criticism. His ideas on who Steve should be. 

A second later, Steve's hands started working by themselves, grabbing Brock by his shirt, their feet moving along,  
those two or three steps, then Steve turned him around, bent him over the kitchen table only to plaster himself on top. His fingers went straight to the button of Brock's jeans, wanting him. Wanting him now. 

"I'm gonna get you off," Steve announced, words slipping out. He was going to get them both off. 

"You better," Brock warned, breathless. They were on the same page again. Unable to say no. Saying _get on with it _instead. 

Brock's cock was hot, figuratively and literally, hard and wet at the tip, a handful of unfiltered lust in Steve's palm. Everything that Steve had longed for those past weeks. 

It wouldn't last though, the easy slide of his hand, slick from nothing but Brock's anticipation. He set a rhythm still, jerked him off with precision, every touch he had picked up when he'd watched Brock do it himself in his bed. Tried to make it feel as good as possible for as long as possible. 

He didn't know why he did what he did then. Why he reached out for Brock's hand. Why he wanted them to be close like that. Connected. In touch. Why he wanted it, for Brock, but for himself too. 

Hold onto him. 

"Steve," Brock said, speaking his name in that same manner that he had apologized over and over today. Careful like it was dangerous. Humble but courageous. Like he meant it. Like it meant something. Like it held some truth. A future. 

He was close and it made Steve press his body against Brock's. He wanted to feel it. All of his orgasm. All of his pleasure. 

Though part of him was impatient, Steve forced himself to take his time, work his fingers over Brock's cock with finesse. Efficient but with care. Giving Brock time to surrender control, hand himself over and trust Steve to make it good. Make it count. 

And Steve wanted nothing more than to make it good for them. Make Brock enjoy himself. 

He could feel Brock's body working towards its high, fingers tight between his own, legs shifting, knees trembling. Both of them relying on that table for support. 

He came just as hot into Steve's fist, in sticky eager spurts that Steve couldn't help but wonder if it was a testament to how much he'd missed doing that. Doing it with Steve. Just as hot as that first touch, as his back against Steve's chest. Too much for Steve to catch at once, his palm so wet, he used it to ride Brock through the aftershocks. Let the rest of it hit the floor, every drop making Steve harder and harder in his jeans. 

"Fuck," Brock whispered, couldn't manage to get another word out. Wrung out from Steve's hand. 

Steve hadn't noticed how he'd lost his breath too, took a moment to catch it, gather himself. Figure out what to do. 

He acted on autopilot, hands coming up to fumble with his belt, get his dick out and extend that moment of satisfaction. Share that bliss with Brock. Take some for himself, recreate it. Make more of it. Produce happiness instead of depression. Produce more relief. More recognition. 

Let Brock feel it in return. 

"Do it," Brock told him. Somehow knowing what Steve wanted. His thoughts circling around the urge to have Brock beneath him once more. Shuddering under traces of Steve. Taking it. Asking for it. "Just fucking drench me in it already," Brock added and Steve whined in frustration over uncoordinated fingers. 

He needed to come, and he needed it now and he needed it all over Brock's skin. He was frantic, so fucking close that he was stressed out, scared to loose the urgency, to miss the tipping point. 

Seconds later, he fell apart, eyes shut tight as he let himself crumble into pieces, coming undone over Brock's body, bits and pieces, stains and drops and smudged stripes of his come everywhere. The sight as gratifying as the feeling, Steve's head spinning until he buried it between his mess and Brock's skin, the hem of his shirt, eyes wet from emotions. 

He could really be overwhelming. 

Too much. 

To much baggage.

Heavy baggage. 

Then he remembered the weight of his body on top of Brock's. Pulled away to give him some space. Have him breathe a little easier. 

"Tell me again how this wouldn't live up to what I did before," Steve started, struggling to secure his stance back on his feet. "How it wouldn't compare." 

It wasn't up to Steve, not him alone, to label what had just happened. But he felt dizzy, drunk and full. Loosened and rebooted. Partially restored. More like himself than he had in a while. Happy even. 

He watched Brock find his own balance, upright within seconds and with a wide stance. Habit mostly. From work. 

"You really like it like that, don't you?" Brock asked, fumbling with his pants. His shirt looked like it was beyond rescue. Looked good in Steve's eyes. Better than before. Better than from that night before. "Messy like that?" Brock went on. "And all over the place? You really like it a lot." 

"Don't you?" Steve wondered, worried that he went too far, let himself get carried away. That he crossed another boundary. That he had misread the whole thing. 

Brock locked eyes with him, worried about something in return. Something Steve couldn't make out. Couldn't guess. Couldn't catch between his own questions. 

"I love it," Brock said eventually. Held Steve's gaze. Long seconds ticking away in silence. He was determined to stand by this statement. 

And Steve couldn't help the laugh slipping up past his lips. The inexplicable humor of their entire situation. 

"Come here," Brock told him, tone soft but confident. 

Usually, Steve wasn't the type to be ordered around. Resisted out of principle. Out of spite. 

But he wanted to trust Brock. Put that trust into action. And so he moved until he stood right in front of him. Closed his eyes even before Brock leaned in for the kiss. 

* * *

"You hate this, don't you?" Brock asked next to him on the bed. Arm on Steve's stomach, palm against his ribs, feeling him breathe. 

The sun was already gone, November nights taking hold of the afternoons. Brock's bedroom dark and isolated from the world. 

Time passing quickly around them, standing still between them, the two of them drifting in thoughts and quiet moments, in slow kisses and soft touches. In the occasional rough grip, fingernails digging into fabric, into skin, into tentative meaning. 

Steve's lips were still wet from their last kiss, his shirt damp with sweat from how long they've been making out. Erections coming and going. He didn't care that it wasn't going to lead anywhere else today. Just experiencing some arousal again was blessing enough. 

"No," Steve breathed, shaking his head. "I don't even hate that you have feelings for me," he admitted, fingertips grazing over Brock's temple and the short hairs above his ears. 

"No?" Brock asked with hesitation. 

No, Steve thought. Shook his head again. It was fine. Okay. Unsettlingly okay. It was Brock's business. It wasn't an issue. They had other issues to sort. 

"Just don't blame me if I don't," Steve said, tried to pretend he wasn't affected by it. By the implications. The past experiences. 

"Explain it to me," Brock offered carefully. Didn't move. Let Steve decide without pressure. 

"Some people love men," Steve tried then, eyes on the ceiling although he couldn't make out a single shape. "Some people love women. And some people don't love at all," he said, hoping it would make enough sense. "That's just how it is. For me. Because I'm one of those people." 

There was a pause, more silence, Brock trying to understand. Maybe trying to figure out what to say. Trying to find some words that wouldn't ruin what they had. 

"Do you want to?" he asked then. Quietly still. Tender even. "Or wish that you would?" he added. "Fall in love?" 

"I wish it wouldn't matter," Steve said automatically. He was done with wishing he was different. With thinking something about him was wrong, was glaringly flawed. 

"It doesn't," Brock told him. In a way that tempted Steve to believe him. 

"It will," he said though. "It always does eventually." 

Though he wasn't looking at him, Steve could tell just how cautiously Brock went about his next words. 

"I don't think," he started, hesitated. Then decided to rephrase. Keep going either way. "I'm not sure if what most people want from you is love," he said, seeking more of Steve's body with his own. "Not that I agree with them." 

"And you?" Steve asked, couldn't be arsed to care about other people for now. "What do you want?"

"Pause my life," Brock admitted. Placed a kiss on Steve's sleeve, nose pressed against his elbow. "And be with you until I'm tired of it." He squeezed Steve's arm before he went on, tone different. Lighter. Less serious. "Then resume and forget we ever fucked. Find someone new, get my head straight." 

Steve could hear Brock smiling as he spoke. The teasing intentions. He was about to share it, laugh into the darkness when Brock added another thing. And this time Steve wasn't so sure how much of it was meant as a joke. How much was genuine resentment. 

"Never walk into O'Hare again." 

* * *

He was on his way to the pilots' lounge to file his paperwork for the last flight that week when someone shouted through the corridor.

"Hey," a guy barked. "Hey America," he tried again and Steve frowned as he turned to see what this was about. 

When he spotted the uniform, his brain shortcut straight to Brock, but it wasn't him. It was one of his colleagues. 

"Rogers," he addressed him now. Thankfully much quieter as he closed the distance between them. "I need to talk to you." 

"And you are?" Steve asked, couldn't remember if he'd ever exchanged two words with this guy. 

"Jack," he said, looking bored and impatient at once. "Rollins." 

Shit. 

The guy still didn't look familiar, but Steve remembered Brock mentioning his name the first time they've hooked up. As the guy who stood him up. 

"Listen," he said before Steve could come up with something to reply. "Pierce is heading out of town for a meeting. Taking one of the smaller ones. He wants you in the cockpit." 

"I'm with an airline," Steve reminded him. Regulations could be tricky. He couldn't just take jobs on the side. Not even for O'Hare's CEO. Or offer services as a private pilot. 

"That's why I'm here, aren't I?" Rollins just said. So he knew. He knew that Steve couldn't fly for hire unless approached. "Plane will be ready, all you gotta do is hop in." Yeah, that guy sure did his homework. Or Pierce had done it for him. 

"A private jet?" Steve tried to clarify. Yes, they were smaller, but that didn't mean they were any safer. If anything, private flights were more complicated than established commercial routes. 

"Flight's tomorrow night," Jack just said, visibly eager to wrap up their conversation. "Pierce will get the details to you if you're in."

"I don't work tomorrow," Steve said, absently. He didn't really mind spending his days off in the cockpit. But he'd be ending up working non-stop for almost two weeks. Brock wouldn't be happy to hear about it. Hell, Steve wouldn't be happy to tell him. 

"Funny how that worked out, isn't it?" Rollins just said and grinned. "So you're in?"

"If it's a jet, I'll need a co-pilot," Steve reminded him. "Safety first." 

"You are the co-pilot," Jack said, looking past Steve, plotting his escape. If he thought Steve liked this conversation more than he did, he was gravely mistaken. 

"To whom?" Steve wondered, he wasn't good at sharing the cockpit. 

"Pierce has his people," Jack just said. 

"Why are you coming to me then?" Steve asked immediately. 

"He's heard a lot about you." Jack told him, grinning again. "Different things apparently from what's been said around here," he added. Steve was about to scoff over the remark, but Rollins didn't give him a chance. "And Pierce is always looking for people to trust. Wants to see if you might be one of them." 

"If I'm trustworthy enough?" Steve echoed. "I've just operated a five-hundred passenger plane for nine and a half hours."

"Does this mean, you're taking the job?" Rollins pressed, expression blank. Bored. Just a hint of disgust in the way he pursed his lips. 

"Where to?" Steve asked. He wanted to take it just for the sake of flying and not hating it. Restore that part of himself too. Fall back in with his job. Rediscover why he had once loved every second of it. 

"DC," Jack said, tone flat. He glanced over Steve's shoulder once more, couldn't be bothered to fake any interest in Steve's decision. 

"You can tell Pierce I'll be in the cockpit," he decided then, didn't give Rollins the satisfaction of being the first to turn his back. 

And if it pissed Rollins off, to be left standing there, well, Steve hoped it did. 


	10. Chapter 10

"Are you staying?" Brock asked, squeezing past Steve to check the kitchen for Crossbones. He sounded different. Less tense. Less worried. 

It was a loaded question, but the way Brock had asked, it felt weightless. Just a piece of drifting conversation. An information to pass. 

"Maybe," Steve just said, set his bag down by the bedroom door. The lines were still drawn, both of them still in their respective uniforms. One of them home, the other a guest. Both of them with no idea what they were doing. "How was work?"

"Same old," Brock told him from the other room, his voice farther away than it needed to be. "Yours?" he asked, head sticking out into the hallway. He was smiling beneath the words. 

"Same old," Steve echoed, took off his shoes out of habit. Only noticed what it'd look like when he caught Brock's gaze lingering with his socks on the hardwood floors. Then the soft creak when he took a step towards him rocked them awake. 

"Jetlagged?" Brock wondered, kept his eyes on Steve's face. Halfway between pretending nothing had happened and visible relaxation. Some peaceful relief written all over his face. 

Steve shook his head. He felt okay. Finally adjusting or just refusing to acknowledge the strain. He couldn't even tell. Lies that had started to fit like a second skin. Fine, fine, fine. He was fine. Always just fine. Sometimes alright, sometimes well enough. Sometimes struggling, but always managing. Managing poorly, but managing nonetheless. 

With just two feet from him, Steve glanced over Brock's shoulder into the kitchen, all of the memories still fresh, still close, still alive. Just a shift in time away. An arm's length. Still in reach, palpable, the touch of wet skin, the shudder of the release. 

"The one time I can tell what you're thinking and I find myself hating it," Brock said, closed the distance between them with just one step. "You ruined my own place for me," he added, voice soft. 

"You hate that too?" Steve asked, tracing Brock's features with his gaze. The veins on his temples, the lines under his eyes, the shadow of his beard around his lips. A grin. The flash of teeth, tongue finding its way between them. 

"Not yet," he told Steve, the brush of a finger against his thigh. Hardly there. Maybe not there at all. Wishful thinking on Steve's part. 

"But you will?" Steve asked. More fingertips over expensive fabric. Relief in his stomach and interest between his legs. 

"Eventually," Brock replied. "I guess," he added, quietly. Lips barely moving. Steve wanted to kiss him. 

"Inevitably?" he wondered, his hand coming up beneath Brock's chin, could already taste him just from the thought of it. 

"We're doomed, aren't we?" Brock asked, his fingers finding the edge of Steve's pocket. Pulling him in on a sway.

"I thought we'd established that."

Steve's last word fell on the touch of Brock's lips, his eyes closed and with his hand on the warm skin of Brock's neck. 

The exhaustion of work left him, the annoyances, the tension of yet another day spent non-stop in the cockpit. 

He wasn't home, but he was close enough. A place on the other side of town, Chicago's streets and their noise and their life, all around him, but shut out safely. Everything on pause. He wasn't alone, but it didn't bother him. 

It wasn't just Brock's touch in sensitive areas that helped Steve relax. His lips, too, on a sore spot, just off the corner of his lips now, where Steve felt worn out from polite smiles. 

And the solace in the silence of their breaths. 

"Because you hate being loved?" Brock whispered. His chest against Steve's, his neck stretched to reach him for another kiss. "'Cause you can't deal with it?" 

"So, now you love me?" Steve asked, accusation without substance, without teeth. Nothing but hot air, fading in comparison to their heated proximity. 

"Never said that," Brock argued. A half-hearted objection. His left hand joined the other at the waistband of Steve's pants. 

"Don't think you had to," Steve muttered as the button was forced past its hole. Slow, achingly slow, the pad of Brock's thumb against it smooth plastic, pushing it through. 

"But you're still here?" Brock asked, holding out to release it. The outline of Steve's cock impossible to overlook. "Why?"

"You want me to leave?" Steve asked right back, willing his hips still. They could go either way. 

"Just tell me," Brock urged, but it sounded like a plea. "Why you're still here. Why you reply to my texts. Why you keep coming back for more. To prove to me that I was wrong about you? What I said about you?" 

Contrary to what Brock believed, Steve didn't hate being loved. He didn't hate people being in love with him. 

It wasn't as if Steve didn't believe in love. In theory. He wouldn't deny other people their experience of it. But he had never seen, never felt, any evidence of it personally. He didn't understand it, and couldn't relate to it. 

He liked other people just fine. He understood the different layers of attraction, of commitment, of dependency. Understood favoring and adoration. He understood the grief of loss and the occasional feeling of loneliness. The depths of heartbreak, however, and the elevating rush of being in love were a mystery to him.

But nothing about it, in essence, was causing him distress. 

The appalling thing about love were the expectations. 

The pressure of being someone's happy place. The pressure of sharing a life when, at times, just one seemed too small to even fit Steve alone. The pressure of compromises. 

The pressure of being built upon. A life together on top of his own. Hopes and dreams and distant plans. 

The pressure of an imaginary future, always present, the idea of growing old, of children growing up, of love growing like a tree, like a two-story house in the suburbs, of growing comfortable. History piling up from day one. And every day more. First dates, first kisses and a wedding day. Anniversaries. Memories. 

And suddenly the realization that it was never about creating a future, but creating a legacy. However small and mundane. Two kids, maybe three. A house with carved initials by the door and clutter in the attic. More history. An entire museum. 

Steve liked the future better than the past. New beginnings better than dusty artifacts. Messy chances and panicked starts. Nothing in life was meant to be preserved. He'd rather leave nothing behind of a life lived than leave behind a half a life in framed pictures and his partner's memory. 

He'd never in his life had felt the urge, the need to, nor the pleasure of sharing his life. Space, childhood details, debt. Responsibility. He'd always felt complete just being by himself. Complete and capable. Competent. Confident. 

For now, Brock had stayed clear of all expectations. Had only asked him not to sleep with other people. And disclose it right away if it were to ever happen. Things that were reasonable to a degree even if feelings weren't involved. But he hadn't asked Steve for a relationship, romance, to be his boyfriend. Hadn't asked him to share his life. 

Brock had given him a break from it instead. 

"Because you're not an asshole all the time," Steve deflected, hoping Brock would just laugh and let it go. 

"But you can have anyone," Brock said instead. 

"So?" Steve asked. Didn't get a chance to add anything. Not that he had wanted to. Part of him was over this conversation already. 

"So you like me," Brock concluded. Not his worst shot. Somewhat endearing even. Then his fingers fumbled with Steve's zipper. Getting him interested again. 

"I like that you take my mind off things," Steve said. Felt movement by his dick. Brock rewarding him for his answer. 

"What things?" he pushed, ignoring the way Steve's cock begged to be touched. 

"Life," Steve tried, but Brock just shook his head. Fingers frozen in place. "Other people's relationships," Steve started again, though it was merely half a reason. But the zipper went down half an inch despite it. Brock thought him on the right path.

"Stress," Steve admitted, feeling himself, and Brock's hand, getting closer to the point. "Those days you just want to forget. When you contemplate skipping plans, but you wouldn't want to be home either. That's when I'd rather be with you."

"Romantic," Brock scoffed, hiding it well if the confession appealed to him. 

"Well, I'm not trying to win you over," Steve said. Didn't know why he couldn't keep it to himself. Some part of him worried that he'd be called out later for leading Brock on. Another not knowing what to do with this honesty. This vulnerability.

And a third just wanted to hurt Brock. 

By taking it all back. Taking it all away. 

Steve hadn't forgotten the things Brock had said about him that first night. Hadn't forgotten his clumsy kisses, the careless, reckless touch of his fingers during sex. It all flared up now, prompted by softer and more forgiving thoughts, burning them into the ground. 

Making him regret his confession.

Ultimately, Brock had ruined something for Steve, too. 

This. 

Whatever this was between them. 

"No," Brock agreed though, before Steve had even a chance to find an excuse. "You already have, haven't you?" His eyes all over Steve's face, taking it in or figuring him out. All focused and headstrong. "Won me over. And without trying to too." 

And suddenly he was palming Steve's dick through his boxers. Free at last. Almost. 

Steve let himself be watched, a smile playing around his lips. They were past flirting, knowing where they would end up. They were past kidding themselves. Steve was past his worries.

"I want you," he said gently. Despite his better judgement. He was in the mood for a slow fuck. In the mood for a tender back and forth, a new rhythm, a new tune. 

"And I-," Brock started, kissing the dip beneath Steve's bottom lip, "-want you to stay."

"For what?" Steve asked, let his eyes fall shut despite their talk. There was an entire different conversation going on below his belt, Brock's fingers having words with his cock. "Hear me say goodnight or good morning?"

"Whichever is the right answer," Brock just said, teeth grazing along Steve's jaw, hand buried in his boxers. 

Steve found himself nodding, agreeing to more than Brock's words. More than Brock's touch. 

Agreeing to a tonight. A tomorrow. A near future. 

Agreeing to a shared yesterday. 

They stumbled along the hall, an awkward dance, bodies determined to stay close, stay connected. Jackets and shirts dropping, pieces of Steve's uniform discarded on the floor. 

There were fresh sheets on Brock's bed, untouched fabric, fresh out this morning in preparation for the night. Condoms and lube on the bedside table. A bottle of water. A candle, never meant to be lit. Brock put his phone down beside it. 

Steve patted his pockets, but came out empty. The weight of the phone would have pulled down his unzipped pants long ago. He glanced at his bag by the door, found the device on his first try. 

When he turned, Brock's hand was already there to take it from him. Left it with his own. Side by side their social lives, their calendars, bytes of distraction. The pictures of Nat resting in the trash. Automatically deleted by next week. 

"Is this dumb?" Brock asked, noticing Steve watching him. "Feels a little coupley, doesn't it?" He glanced down at their phones, paired like a before and after shot. Some high-end new edition of Steve's versus Brock's used-up predecessor. Almost painful to see. 

Steve shook his head. "It's practical," he just said, eyes on different things on the nightstand. 

"How do you want me?" Brock asked, very audibly nervous to phrase that question. 

"We don't have to," Steve said right away. He wasn't patient enough today for a first. To go through the motions, the emotions, of fragile trust, of inexperienced pleasure. Sometimes it was easier to just bend over. With Brock, tonight, it was easier. Or maybe he didn't care enough. 

Couldn't be bothered to make it anything _special_. 

"Not asking what we have to do," Brock told him. "Asking what you want," he added, somehow thriving on daring Steve to fuck him lately. 

"You need me to spell it out?" Steve asked half-heartedly and stepping out of his pants while he was at it. 

Brock watched him, like he always did, curious, but with that hint of pending assessment. That small bit of jealousy, of disapproval, that checked over every inch of Steve's skin, looking for another's touch. 

"I want you to go slow," Steve told him, sitting on the bed and holding out his hand for Brock to step between his legs. "When you fuck me, I want you to make it last." 

With his hands on Steve's shoulders, Brock stared down at him, contemplating the offer. The request. 

"You sure I'm gonna be enough?" Brock started, inexplicably hesitant. 

"Oh, come on," Steve said over a small laugh. "Not this again." 

"Don't be like that," Brock said, as if Steve was supposed to know exactly what was wrong with the way he reacted. 

"Tired of the ever same shit?" he suggested annoyed. Aware that he wasn't making things any easier. 

"I worry I'll bore you," Brock admitted, eyes on some spot below Steve's collarbone. "In bed." 

"Still?" Steve wondered, thoughts back with Brock's kitchen table. _Tell me again how it wouldn't compare_. "You have an odd way to go about sex, Brock," he added, although he wasn't usually one to judge. "About sex with me," he clarified once a frown spread over Brock's forehead. "I don't think I get the full extent of it, I don't think I agree with all of it, but you have yet to bore me with it." 

"Tell me you like it then," Brock tried, stepping further into Steve's space, until his knee was right there by Steve's cock. "Tell me you like me."

"Just don't call me a slut for it," Steve said instead, going for playful but failing miserably. Rubbing salt into his own wound and his fingers over the bulge in Brock's boxers. "Maybe not so soon," he added barely audible. 

There was a long shameful pause, maybe the first in Steve's life in which he busied his hands with Brock's business, kept his eyes down. As if the kid in those back alleys had died, suffocating its image, the raised chin and the defiant gaze. 

"Steve?" Brock asked, waited until their eyes met before he spoke again. "Tell me what I can call you instead," he said, wouldn't allow for the moment to pull them under. "You don't do love and you don't do boyfriends. I can't imagine anyone calling you Baby," he went on, his hands moving from Steve's shoulders to his jaw. "And you liking it." 

"I don't do nicknames either," Steve shrugged. 

"Says Captain America," Brock added and laughed. 

"Maybe I've had too many," Steve offered. 

"Yeah?" Brock wondered. "What's a name no one calls you? Aside from Babe or Honey or whatever." 

Brock didn't know just how many people had called Steve Baby or Honey or whatever in the past. Steve never cared. It wasn't pet names he loathed. Just that all too often they would try and erase an identity, swap who he was with what someone else saw in him. Not so different from Brock calling him a slut. Also why, at times, he loathed Captain America too. 

"Steven," he told him. "No one calls me that anymore." 

"Steven, huh?" Brock echoed and Steve nodded. 

"Not since I was a kid," he added with half a shrug and half a smile. Not even Buck called him Steven anymore. Not since kindergarten. 

"Lie back," Brock told him, nudged Steve backwards, gently, with a hand on the side of his neck. "Stay quiet," he added, pulled off his t-shirt. "And don't come just yet." 

Brock had his eyes closed when he took Steve between his lips, a sign of nervousness that Steve recognized well. He never did it, knew that half of the appeal of any blowjob came from that eye-contact in that very first second. The witnessing of the crime. 

That didn't mean that it didn't feel incredible. Brock's mouth around his cock. The wetness and the heat. All the clichés. Steve bit his lips to stay quiet. Kept his hips still and let his legs fall open wider. 

He hadn't been expecting this, not today, not so soon. Not with Brock's ego and his pride. His preferences. 

Brock's hands were on his thighs, holding them apart with more force than necessary, fingers pressing into sensitive skin, thumbs closing in on his balls. 

With his arms stretched out on the bed, Steve stared up at the ceiling, stomach tight from the sensations, from Brock's tongue working its way to the base to lick over the side of his sack. 

If it were up to Steve, Brock didn't have to rush things, could take his time instead. He could just get used to it, start to enjoy himself. Steve had enough self-control to hold out. 

He forced his breaths through his nose, determined to stay quiet like Brock had told him to. Though he didn't quite understand what Brock liked about it. 

Silence during sex wasn't Steve's thing. Part of the fun were the noises, the moans, hearing the pleasure as clear as feeling it. 

Brock did go slow. Took all the time in the world to move up Steve's cock and back down again, to get him wet, every patch of skin making contact with Brock's tongue at least once. Then twice, then a hundred times. 

By the time Steve had to grasp the sheets to keep his body under control, the time he had to dig his heels into the carpets to chase some tension off his hips, Brock's knees were most likely aching, his neck stiff and sore. 

It was when Steve finally began to understand the appeal of quiet sex. 

The silence opened up unknown spaces for unforeseen revelations. Thoughts different from those during the day, different from those alone, from those in the solitary silence. 

Everything blurred aside from the spots where Brock's lips where on him, wrapped around him. For once, the world ceased to exist, decisions and choices taken from him. Wrong turns and mistakes suddenly seeming so appealing. Nothing more tempting than going off the rails. With Brock. For Brock. 

Being with Brock wasn't pausing his life, was like a back door into one of those sketchy alleys again. Steve knew them best. 

If he had to be Superman 24/7, this was where he was stripped down to Clark Kent. With Brock reluctant to see the best of him. 

Or all of him. 

And Steve allowing it. Enjoying it. Reveling in it until he couldn't tell anymore who the real him even was. 

Brock messed with his head too. Annoyingly so. 

Unaware of Steve's spiraling thoughts, Brock kissed his hip bone, the side of his navel, then each rib until he could press his lips against his throat. 

"You okay?" he whispered and Steve nodded. Guessed it would still qualify for staying quiet. Then threw caution into the wind. Or compliance.

"You?" he asked, hoping that hearing his own voice would pull him out from under. 

Brock looked him over, eyes searching for something on Steve's face instead of searching for a reply. 

"You're terrifying, you know that?" Brock told him as if it wouldn't shake Steve right out of everything they had going on at the moment. 

Which it did. And he pulled back on instinct, confused but trying to give Brock more space instantly while reexamining his behavior. Wondering what he had done wrong. 

"Not like that," Brock said immediately, reaching out to keep Steve close. 

"How then?" Steve asked, still so quiet, although he'd lost all thought of sex. 

Brock held his gaze, chest moving with calm breaths, skin smooth along his collarbones, sweaty to the sides and wet above his chin. 

"I've never felt like this," he admitted. "I've been in love before, and this, this isn't exactly it. This is like, I don't know, like being corrupted." 

"I don't think other people talk about love as much as we do," Steve tried, but his voice hadn't recovered yet from the disruption of the mood. He let his back sink into the pillows, trying to relax. "Not even the ones in a relationship." 

"I think this is more than a talk," Brock started, following Steve up the bed until they breathed the same air again and their lips were almost touching, "I think this is what they call a relationship negotiation." 

Fuck. 

"Any chance for a win-win?" Steve wondered. Offered. Wanted to believe in it when he should have grabbed his back and ran instead. 

Like being corrupted indeed. 

He buried his fingers in the hairs at the back of Brock's neck, pulled him into a slow kiss on his quest to recover the scattered arousal. 

Sometimes he really was his own worst enemy. 

By now they knew how to let themselves fall into their kisses. All of their movements attuned, lips touching and tongues seeking contact. Finding one perfect moment to meet after another. 

Slowly but surely, they reeled the slipped mood back in, bodies so close, heated skin and hardening cocks. Brock pushed into Steve, with hungry kisses from a savoring mouth and strong hands, precome and sweat smeared all over Steve's stomach. His own, Brock's, there was no way to tell. And it didn't matter once the lube got involved, Brock asking Steve to stay on his back. 

Steve needed a second to get his body in order, the muscles in his thighs protesting, trembling ever so slightly, having been spread for half an eternity already. 

"You're good like this?" Brock asked, his palm grazing gently over Steve's leg, trying to soothe the strain. 

"Maybe I'm a little out of shape," Steve said, smiled, feeling nothing short of amazing. Shoulders in soft sheets, a semi-decent guy he liked for some reason between his legs, about to be fucked. 

"Hey, how about we skip the prep," Brock suggested, mirrored Steve when all he could do was to raise his eyebrows. 

"Why?" he asked, because contrary to his recent choices, he wasn't technically a masochist. 

"You know why," Brock said, even held eye contact to prove some point that wasn't ever to be made. And because he was an asshole. 

It was part disbelief and part self-punishment that made Steve grin at that. He was so goddamn tired of it all. "No, Brock," he said then, his voice calm but determined. All professional. "We're not gonna skip. Either you do it or I'll do it myself." 

Brock looked down at him once more, contemplating his options. Steve watched him, believed to be able to see his mind working. There was something about him there, casted gaze and breathing through his mouth, some pain laying bare in the lines of his face. Pain that ran deeper than Steve's history. Deeper than what Brock wanted him to be instead. 

"Why you're so obsessed with this?" Steve asked finally, couldn't remember then why he had never put it into words before. Though he was well aware of how generously he'd worded his question. 

Brock glanced up, but couldn't bear to hold Steve's gaze. Then he shrugged. Unable to put it into words. Not like that first night when he had managed to find reason after reason. 

"You know you don't-," Steve started, then hesitated. "You know sex isn't just about that, right?" Though Steve had to admit that it was technically definitely about that. But not always. Not solely. Not for Steve and not between them. "We can do other stuff." 

Brock huffed as if he couldn't believe Steve's offer to be genuine. "And you'll be off looking to get it from someone else?" 

The question was as ridiculous as the whole conversation and yet Steve found himself shaking his head in honesty. It was becoming somewhat obvious that this was about Brock needing to prove something to himself more than to Steve. 

Brock watched his denial, but stayed quiet until another grin tore through Steve's face who couldn't stop himself. 

"What?" Brock asked, confusion in his tone, but some of the tension seemed to leave his body. "What's so funny?" 

"Think this might be one of the rare times I'm actually the jealous one," he admitted. 

Brock frowned, still confused, but he mirrored Steve's smile nonetheless. "Jealous?" he echoed. "Of me?" 

It cost Steve a hell lot of effort to pull his body up in a sitting position so he and Brock would be face to face. It wasn't like him, --and he was well aware of it--, when he kissed Brock softly, sweet and then waited him out until he made eye contact. 

"There are a million ways to have sex," he said quietly. "And you've yet to discover-," he paused, faked some crooked math in his head, "-about nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred of them." He put a hand just beneath Brock's jaw. "So, if you don't like fucking me, Brock," he said with as much heart as he could muster, "you don't have to. You shouldn't." Then he kissed him again. 

Brock let him, though the frown that had started to spread on his forehead seemed to reach his lips. 

"You really wish you were the sexually inept one for a change?" Brock questioned, sneaking a hand behind Steve's neck. Maybe out of fear he'd pull back and away. 

But Steve couldn't deny that same hint of fond amusement he felt so often when faced with Brock's doubts. 

"Well, you have me to discover them with, so-," Steve said, grinned again. 

"Of course," Brock cut in, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "Only you would be jealous of the guy who gets to fuck you." He gently pushed Steve back down into the pillows. "Which is, for the record, exactly what I want to do." He put his hands on Steve's knees, pressing down for a second, nudging them further apart until Steve bit his lip from the pain. "All the time actually," Brock added, reaching for the lube and bringing his hands between Steve's legs. "That's kind of the problem." 

Steve couldn't quite figure out what he meant by that and he didn't have a chance to ask either, when suddenly the tip of one of Brock's fingers breached him eagerly. Taking up all of his focus. 

"Do I still have to be quiet?" he wondered instead, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling for a second before closing his eyes. "Or can I tell you how amazing this feels?" 

"This?" Brock asked, sounding surprised, and then curled his finger. Adding pressure to all the good spots. 

"Yeah," Steve assured him, voice breathy and loaded. His hands coming up to rub over his eyes first then his forehead. Impatience was beginning to radiate off his spine, dripping down to start building up tension for a distant release.

"You feel amazing," Brock told him, biting his lip as he watched his fingers sink into Steve's body. "You always do, always have," he added. One hand holding Steve's hips down with tender pressure. "Kind of why I want to keep doing this while I fuck you."

His words were swimming in Steve's head, adding to his mixed messages all around. There was nothing in particular in his words that suggested a change. A change of heart or in who Brock was. A change in who Steve was to him. Or what. But it wasn't like before either. 

This was a new reason. Maybe nothing more than a lie. But a new reason. 

And Brock was more careful this time, went slow as per Steve's request. Added a second finger only after long minutes had already passed. But Steve knew that didn't mean he was going easy on him, would challenge him any less. Brock wouldn't ever be satisfied with any less. 

"Figured as much," Steve admitted, tried to play it cool. He was aware that his body betrayed him once more. His dick basically jumping at the thought, the realization that Steve was discovering things himself. Things he didn't knew he liked before. 

"You want it too, don't you?" Brock guessed, calling him out so casually. Phrasing it so blatantly dispositioned that it became difficult to decline. 

Difficult if one wanted it without reasonable doubt. 

Just how much, Steve didn't know. Was prepared to try and find out as they went. He tried to reason with himself, wondering if his response to Brock's fucked-up-ness was just that rebellious part of him that wanted to prove he could take and take and would never back down. Wondering if he really liked Brock or if he simply liked the idea of someone loving him. 

And hating every minute of it. 

Hating it so openly.

So he nodded, wondering what kind of fucked up pleasures were born out of spite, out of glorified endurance, out of under-negotiation. 

Wondering what kind of fucked up love was born of it that made Brock press his forehead against Steve's knee. Made him kiss the hairs on the inner side of Steve's thigh, all the way up, just beside his cock, full and yearning for that same promise. What made Brock kiss the head as he added a third finger finally, lube all over Steve's rim, inside and out, the sheets beneath him sticky and damp. 

"You know it," Steve answered finally, his voice reflecting the stretch of his rim. He didn't seem to have any sense of self-preservation left. 

Whoever Brock thought him to be, wanted him to be, he was fine with it. He was fine being the slut Brock hated to want as much as he did. 

Brock cursed against his skin, Steve's admission seemed to have caught him off guard. His slip in posture had the opposite effect on Steve though, he was starting to calm down and relaxed again, patience settling despite how hard he was. Instead he was breathing the tension, the anticipation, Brock's own arousal, thriving on it all in the air. All around him. Steve was drunk on it. High on it. Finally feeling like he fit into his skin again. 

With Brock, he was on a night flight. 

Always just a blink away from losing orientation. 

Moments of stars all around and city lights below blurring with moments of rain over darkness and dimmed runways. 

And all he was left with was blind trust. Unconditional trust in flight instruments and navigation. In instinct without delay. Blind trust in his own skills. In his experience. In his judgement. 

Steve prayed it wouldn't fail him. 

Everything slowed down and stretched infinitely as Brock took his time, more time, all the time there was. And just like Steve had promised himself, he took it, took it all without complaint. When Brock withdrew his fingers from the depths of Steve's body, needed elsewhere to roll a condom on, Steve was bordering on being sore already, skin tingly and hot as he clenched on nothing.

Maybe with someone else, or on another day, he would have asked for a break. But here, he couldn't get those words out. He had wanted Brock to make it last after all. 

"Are you okay like this still?" Brock asked, cock sealed in latex and rock hard in his hands. 

Steve nodded. He was too proud and too lazy all the same to change his position. He wanted to get fucked.

"Good," Brock told him. "Want you to get used to it."

Steve didn't know for sure what Brock meant, but he nodded again. Could have been his trembling thighs and the extra effort in angle. The sex in general or their conversations. Their negotiations. Facing each other for a change. Whatever it was they'd make it work and Steve would get used to it. They would make it work out. 

The thought was so foreign and strange that Steve feared his brain had glitched. He wasn't one to hope for things to last. They did or they didn't. They stayed or they went. They mattered or they passed him by. To be left behind. He never looked back. Onwards only. Onwards always. Tomorrow, next week, the next flirt. The future just a minute away. 

He wouldn't ever hold onto things. 

Foundations were for the past. 

Things that lasted were suffocating. Were poisonous. Were freezing the edges of life until nothing remained alive. 

Now he held onto Brock with sweaty fingers. 

Brock guided himself to the edge of Steve's rim, skin sensitive and tender, hurting as an afterthought, and if it had been any other in Brock's place, Steve might have flinched at the touch, at the shiver running down his back, sheets useless against its current. 

But he didn't. He moaned instead, ready to let Brock in without resistance. Without delay or hesitation. 

"Ask me for it," Brock told him, getting cocky just as Steve was going under again. It wasn't fair. 

"How am I still here?" Steve echoed Brock's same question from earlier. The words feeling hazy and dreamlike on his tongue. Once more, he was stalling. Didn't know what to do with Brock's request. It just wasn't like him to do what he was told. "Why are you?" he added in an afterthought. 

Brock held his gaze, hitting pause for Steve to sort his confusion, tip of his cock nudging against Steve's ass, one more part of his body eager to enter him tonight, and frowned.

"Getting away from everything and all that," Brock reminded him. "Does it really matter anymore?" he asked, knees jerking with his effort to keep still. He wanted to surge forward instead, knees and hips and hands until he was buried inside Steve's body. And Steve wouldn't mind scoring that win. 

Did it matter? 

Leap of faith or lack of judgment. 

Twist of fate or a wrong turn.

"Guess not," Steve shrugged. He would keep going eventually. Get out and move on. And so would Brock. Unpause his life. How they got here didn't matter. The past didn't matter. 

"Then ask me for it," Brock said again, eyes pleading first before he went on. "Please," he added. The irony escaping him entirely. "I'm all left hanging here." 

"Give it to me then," Steve said. Released him. Not in the mood for games. "Fuck me already." 

He'd been fingered a while, stretched so thoroughly, and with Brock's reasonably sized dick, Steve had no trouble taking him in, his body adjusting just fine to the intrusion. Better than fine. And Steve knew long before it happened that Brock would comment on it.

"God, you're such a mess," Brock told him, concentration written on his face. Bottom lip between his lips as he drew his brows close.

It was the first time that they actually faced each other while they fucked, the first time Steve could see, could witness, the full extent of Brock's contempt as he penetrated him. 

And it set all of Steve's false gods on fire again. Spite and endurance and the lack of fucks he had to give. 

Steve was torn. Part of him wanted to just remind Brock that he wasn't obliged to keep going if he didn't enjoy himself, and the other, a particularly twisted and sick part of him wanted to rile up Brock even more. 

"Yeah?" Steve dared him, question just slipping off his tongue. He craved to hear the rest of it, the worst that Brock would ever be able to come up with. 

"Should have listened," Brock mumbled, caught up with fucking into Steve, gracelessly and lazy, as if Steve wasn't worth the trouble. "Yeah, you're a mess," he said then, a little louder, so Steve could hear, before he bend down to kiss Steve forceful and rough. His hands heavy on Steve's chest as his hip bones painfully dug into Steve's thighs. "No wonder you can't fall in love," he spat out breathlessly, choked on the words. Couldn't refrain from bringing it up again, from holding it against Steve despite his efforts to explain his aromanticism to him in earlier talks. 

Steve felt the deliberately cruel cut, the edge of the words and their poison. Yet he stared at Brock defiantly, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of arguing about it. "Yeah, no wonder," Steve just echoed. Let it simmer there between them.

Brock was in the middle of what Steve guessed was adjusting his position, when his knee slipped on the mattress and his dick slipped right out of Steve. 

With anyone else, it wouldn't have been a thing. But with Brock he fully expected him then and there to bring it up, adding his own twist to it. With Brock, the ice was thin and from the way he cursed Steve knew that he was in for it anyways now. The whole nine yards. 

So when he felt laughter building in his chest he knew better than to let it escape. 

With anyone else, it would have been fine. Humor lightening the mood, never killing it. But with Brock, laughter would just add to his embarrassment. His anger, his resentment. 

There was no way Brock could just gloss over the little mishap. Taking it as an opportunity instead to lecture Steve about his life once more. Going on and on about Steve having a problem. And how fingering him while fucking him wasn't about Brock's fucked up ways to go about sex. 

Was about nothing more than necessity. 

_Never had to use two fingers before_. 

It was bound to happen any second now. 

With the surreal headspace Steve was in, it didn't even matter. He had turned himself into an eager spectator to his own character assassination. Into a contributor even. 

All of it coming dangerously close to excite him.

When Brock pushed back into Steve it was with more force, obviously, with an angry stutter of hips that made Steve hope and worry at once that he would come right that second and just leave Steve there as punishment.

"Anyone else ever complained?" Brock asked, surprising Steve by not addressing the obvious. By not letting his frustration seep into his words. It was there in his voice though, annoyance and resentment. 

And Steve soaked it all up. 

"People expect me to feel something I can't," he said, a similar bitterness in his tone. Although he would have preferred a different topic, speaking distracted him from the aching muscles in his thighs and how much he needed Brock to hit a certain spot. "Of course they complain." 

"Should we stop?" Brock asked suddenly, stopping his thrusts so abruptly that Steve whined in confusion. 

"No, why?" he tried, noticed the desperation in his own tone. 

Slowly, Brock eased his cock out and moved his fingers to where Steve suddenly felt way too cold. Internally, he braced himself for what was inevitably coming. 

"Don't want you to do this for just me," Brock told him, almost caring. Almost sweet and considerate. Almost. It was all wrapped up in his usual condescending tone. As if sex could only ever be the cherry on top of a love sundae. 

"Trust me," Steve said with just the right amount of emphasis to get his frustration across. "I don't."

"You still like it?" Brock asked, but he didn't look as insecure as his words suggested. With how often Steve had told him that he liked having sex with him and didn't care about his feelings for him, it wasn't impossible that he was merely fishing for compliments now. 

As he waited for an answer, Brock traced Steve's rim with a finger like he'd done so often in the past. Steve tried to hold still, tried to focus on finding his words, but every muscle between navel and knee was eager to betray him by twitching at random in the world's worst choreography. Causing him to worry that his legs would start to cramp or go numb if he didn't move them at least a little. 

"That so hard to believe?" he asked, tried to shift his feet when Brock's hands jumped to his knees to hold him in place. 

"We're not done yet," he said, staring Steve down. 

"I'm sorry, were we still having sex?" Steve questioned pointedly. "Didn't notice over the interrogation." He had aimed for a lighter tone and not quite as much sarcasm, but knew he failed not just from the way he had sounded to his own ears but from the look of Brock's face too. Just once he didn't want to be singled out as the one with the issues. Clearly, him just not caring about love wasn't as bad as the shit Brock carried around. 

"Or maybe you couldn't tell with how little you feel," Brock hit him right back like spitting him in the face. 

At least this way, Steve was reminded that he had been right when he had told Brock that sooner or later this would become a big deal. Like it always did. The validation did little to make him feel better overall though. 

"I still feel things," Steve insisted. Lay back down, shook out and stretched his legs as much as possible with Brock still between them. Then he stared back up at the ceiling, choosing to speak to it instead of Brock's face. "Just not those things," he added, unable to come up with more precise terms for his emotions. "Just not what you want." 

"It's not that bad," Brock said quietly, realizing, too, what had happened. Trying to fix it. "It's just not-" 

"Enough," Steve finished resigned. Of course it wasn't enough. It would never be. Love above all and that crap. 

"Not all the time," Brock added. Possibly trying to mend fences with that small concession. 

"Enough to finish this?" Steve asked, although he knew he shouldn't have. Knowing he should leave instead. Should end this for good. But it was Brock who had to ruin a good thing and they've already fucked in worse moods, so Steve didn't see one reason why he shouldn't at least go home partially satisfied.

There was a long tense pause, filled with nothing but silence, And Steve shut his eyes tight to give himself a moment to just breathe, set his head straight. It was all starting to be too much. Too fucked up even for Steve and his fucked up life.

But he was forced to snap out of it, when he heard Brock curse and Brock exhale sharply, and within that same second, he was left empty and was being pushed over onto his front instead. 

Breathing was useless then as all air seemed to have abandoned him once Brock's face was pressed against his ass, rough stubble between his cheeks and rough hands on them, pulling them apart. Then it was Brock's tongue pushing into him and Steve found himself moaning so loud he startled himself and balled up a pillow beneath him to muffle the noise he was about to make.

He had been surprised by Brock blowing him before, had been surprised by Brock not working a finger in alongside his dick for a change, but none of it compared to the shock of the enthusiasm with which Brock was going about this, channeling all his anger into one of the best rimjobs Steve had ever had. Or had ever imagined. 

Brock worked him over thoroughly. Pressing in deep first and then making his way back, curling his tongue under his rim, flat and wet once he was out, his mouth just as skilled as his fingers, more gentle, more precise.

His lips against the sore skin, unfamiliar, soothing and then igniting all the same as Steve pushed back weakly and with shaking legs. 

Brock moved against him in return, relentless and hungry as if Steve was the best thing he'd ever tasted. 

Everything was sex between them, around them, the room existing just for them. Both of them existing just for that moment. Steve's endless string of noises, both of them breathing heavily, the world collapsing as Steve sank all the way into the rare pleasure, everything else forgotten, lost or a million miles away. 

Steve hadn't wanted this to be anything worthwhile. Something more than a regular fuck. Yet suddenly, it was. 

Different. 

Special. 

Between Brock's lips and his tongue, the spit and the lube, and the way Steve's throat felt too tight for his breaths, too tight for what he wanted to express if he had any words left to do so, between the sticky heat of his cock in the sheets and his heart beating like thunder in his chest, Steve barely noticed when Brock teased his rim with the tip of a finger while licking around it. That one blurring into a second and soon enough Steve lost count and gave up altogether. Surrendering to Brock and his goddamn mouth. 

Brock didn't seem to keep track either, fingers teamworking with his tongue, opening Steve up. 

Everywhere. 

Everything was sex and everything was feeling too fucking good and there were tears in Steve's eyes for reasons he didn't understand and didn't want to think about. 

He was close, hanging on just by the thread of a guilty conscience that wasn't supposed to exist. Of who he was. Of who he couldn't be. Not for Brock, not for anyone else. Of what he did to himself still fucking around with Brock after everything. 

More than anything, Steve wanted to cut it loose and let it all go. 

There was no way Brock was aware of just how deep his struggle went, but when Brock reached out and placed one hand flat on his back as far up as he could reach, Steve wished he somehow knew all about it. 

Usually, he would have shrugged him off, Brock's palm just unnecessary weight. But Brock let his fingertips graze over the skin below Steve's shoulders and down his spine. Just like he had done so often that first night. Praising Steve as he had done so.

The pillow beneath him damp from his breath, from his wet moans, from the sweat in his palms, fabric crumpled in his fists, Steve willed his self-control to return to him. He was supposed to calm down. 

Brock was trying to calm him down while trying to get him off. But his head hurt and his eyes stung and his back was on fire where Brock touched him and his dick was begging him to just get it over with. To thrust into the sheets, just two times or three, put friction where he was painfully neglected. 

Brock backed off with his mouth, but left his fingers with Steve as he kissed his tailbone and then up the side his back. Cheeks and chin still wet, all the way over Steve's shoulder, apologizing over and over for whatever. 

"Sorry," he mumbled into Steve's skin, "sorry, I'm sorry." 

At least, Steve wasn't the only one losing it, the only one falling apart. 

"Come on, Steve," Brock added, lips against Steve's neck. "Don't make me feel entirely useless," he pleaded, his voice as pained as Steve's entire body. 

"Tell me," Steve said, panting with the stress of the edge, with the in-between. He was way beyond simple arousal, all the way up in different spheres yet unable to pull the cord and find his way down. "Tell me what it's like," he forced out, unsure if Brock could make out his words between heavy breaths and the pillow pressed against most of his face. 

Apparently, Steve had just promoted himself into directing his own character assassination instead of just watching it unfold. 

"Like you fucked all of Chicago and I'm the only one struggling to make you come," Brock said. Delivered. Had heard him just fine. 

Maybe it was a little troubling just how easily he had understood what Steve wanted to hear from him. How it didn't take a second beat for him to comply. 

"Like I'm the jerk when I'm the good guy," he added, his mouth by Steve's ear, his fingers as deep into Steve as they would go. 

His words missing the point and his fingers missing the spot. 

Brock wasn't just looking to make Steve come from physical stimulation. He was deliberately trying to get Steve off with his words.

Maybe he was a jerk. 

All they did was talk shit. 

All they did was talk each other down. 

Conditioning each other to their toxic shit. 

And Steve really shouldn't like it as much as he did. 

Shouldn't find as much pleasure in Brock's insecurities, his inexperience, his uptight view of the world and his internal struggles with all of it as he did. 

Just as much as Brock found in calling Steve a slut. 

Maybe they were both jerks and neither was the good guy. 

"Like you're just what I deserve," Brock went on, his voice, like his body, seemingly covering all of Steve, nothing left in the world to reach him but this. "Impossible to fuck and unable to love and all I want, so badly, all the fucking time." 

The second the frustration in Brock's voice turned into despair, Steve choked out another breath as he came in a muddle of aching contractions and rushed spurts, in bolts of relief and flashes of blinding anxiety that made him dizzy and shake. 

None of this was fucking healthy. None of this was how sex was supposed to be. Exciting and fun. Mutual relaxation. 

Instead, he felt more tense than ever in his life, and so did Brock, clinging to Steve almost painfully, from his hands to his fingers, all ten of them by Steve's hips now, to his teeth that held Steve in place by the crook between neck and shoulders. Bruising the skin and Steve's pride. 

He was too old to worry about goddamn hickeys and lovebites. 

There it was again. 

Fucking love. 

Instead of coming down easy, Steve was crashing down a rabbit hole. Every last thought disordered in a head he couldn't seem to find, his body wrung out and without any composure left whatsoever. 

By the time Steve remembered that the world hadn't really gone anywhere, by the time he remembered to breathe, feeling too heavy to move though, Brock had already recovered from his moment of emotional desperation and was rolling on a fresh condom. 

He'd gone soft in between when he'd pulled out and Steve's orgasm from his fingers, his mouth, his goddamn words, and Steve couldn't even blame him with how intense it had all gotten. Intense and overwhelming. 

Too much to handle. 

Then Brock sank back into him without asking. Continued to fuck him. In silence except for his harsh breaths. Except for the wet sounds of his hips slapping against Steve's ass. Maybe not noticing, maybe not caring that Steve wasn't there again yet with most of his arousal still scattered on the bed. As if he could fuck him back into it. Into a second round. 

It was after a solid while, a haunted while, in which Steve felt his body accepting Brock in a different way than before, taking him in with memory now, familiar like a habit, that Brock spoke again. Proving that he was aware of it too. 

"Can I now?" he asked, unable to contain his own ridiculous kinks any longer. Fucked Steve through every word. 

Steve knew he had agreed to it earlier. Had admitted to wanting it. But he couldn't recall the moment. The entire evening had escaped him. Every discussion, every stupid comment, every sentence and their hidden meanings. His head was still scrambled, and he was unable to think straight or make sane decisions.

So he shrugged. Didn't care really. Just like he didn't really care that Brock was fucking him now. Not feeling too much of it anyway. 

"You're infuriating," Brock said, fumbled with Steve's hole and his cock at once before he pulled out. 

For a second Steve thought, Brock would just go, head for the bathroom, take a shower or something and just leave him there on his bed. The slut that couldn't make him come. 

Then suddenly, he was moved onto his back so they could face each other. Which Steve refused, looking back up at his spot on the ceiling. Though he could feel Brock's eyes on him, checking him over. 

Out of reflex, Steve moved a hand down his stomach, not sure what he wanted to do with his dick anyway other than checking on it. See where it was at. Give himself a couple of gentle strokes just to give his fingers something to do. Remind himself that he was still part of this.

"If you're so eager to make use of your hand, how about you help me out with a finger in a different place?" Brock suggested, his voice initially breathy but thickening the longer he spoke. Steve snapped out of it and once he met Brock's gaze, he stared Steve down again. "You know better what you like." 

Steve blinked, processing the words, the tone, the way things unfolded. As expected and yet absolutely unpredictable. 

"Me?" Steve asked, knowing he sounded dumb and feeling like it, too, for even allowing the question to leave his mouth. Of course him. 

"See what it feels like for yourself. See how far you can go." The way Brock spoke, Steve felt inexplicably found out. As if Brock knew exactly which part of Steve to address. "Put in the extra effort," he added, but didn't bother looking Steve in the eye. Stared at Steve's lips instead, waiting for that _yes_ to slip out from between them. 

But Steve was still busy trying to figure out the hypothetical technicalities of it all. If Brock thought him fit, he thought him flexible too. Thought him some kind of sex-magician apparently. 

"You know how much I like it," Brock reminded him. "Think you might too," he added, "given how into yourself you are." 

At that Steve frowned, thoughts of bodily logistics discarded. Steve did like himself. A lot. For someone who couldn't grasp the idea of love, the way he felt for himself would probably clock in closest to the real thing. And he did like touching himself. Did like giving to himself. All of it was true and yet Steve felt it being used against him now. Felt the manipulation although he couldn't argue it. Couldn't understand it. 

"I'll go slow," Brock went on. Couldn't stop himself now that he had started. Now that the idea seemed to appeal to him more and more every second. Seemed to take a sadistic root and grow cruelly into the world. "Nice and slow," he added, moved all the way up Steve's body to press his forehead again Steve's temple, kiss his cheek, and then dragged his lips closer to Steve's ear. "I know you want to." 

A shudder ran down Steve's entire back, his mind tumbling through a million questions into just one. 

Did he? 

Want to? 

He shook his head on instinct alone. Mostly because he didn't even want to know if he wanted to. If he was curious enough as to wonder about the extra thrill of knowing he was fucking himself while Brock fucked him too. Knowing the extra stretch was all him, racing with Brock's dick to send him over the edge. If he was really that into himself. 

Brock huffed at his answer, saw right through it and shook his head. "Some other time then," he added, sounding more bored than disappointed. 

It was then that Steve contemplated asking Brock to stop. Not knowing what to do with Brock's answer. With Brock's tone. Not knowing what to do with his own fucking answer. And the lie behind it. Struggling to keep his head in the game. Or shut it off. Barely remembering why he had refused to give up on this night when Brock had offered to stop. 

"Steve," Brock said, tearing Steve from his thoughts. He was still so close, draped over Steve, hadn't gone anywhere still. They were both too stubborn to let go. "I swear I would rim you while I fucked you if I could." 

It wasn't what Steve had expected and Brock's words made him laugh, his body shaking back to life with it. 

"That's how much I want you, okay?" Brock went on, laughing with Steve between his words. "This is about me. You were right about that. Are you happy now?"

For a moment, Steve really was. Happy about that. Then the lighter mood faded within the second as he began to wonder if he'd ever wanted, assuming that was what Brock's obsession really was about, anyone like that. If he'd ever thought having his dick inside Nat wasn't just quite enough. If he'd felt even a glimmer of frustration over Buck's mouth being full with just one of his body parts. If he would ever feel as much if the roles were reversed, or whether he'd just get off like any other day. 

"Brock?" Steve started, unable to seek out his eyes. Stared at the ceiling instead again. Just a few seconds later he felt the familiar breath against the side of his chest and a pair of lips mouthing along his neck. 

"Yeah," he replied, tip of his nose tracing his kisses quietly. 

"You're not a jerk," Steve told him, didn't know why he felt the need to. Brock was a jerk. Most of the time. Some of the time. But Steve didn't like what it would say about him. 

"Is that a yes?" Brock wondered, jerking hips giving his anticipation away. "Can I?" 

Steve nodded, couldn't bring himself to verbally agree. Yet he knew Brock well enough by now, he should have realized that it wouldn't be enough for him. 

"Ask me for it," Brock told him again. Steve could feel him smiling against his skin. 

"Oh for fuck's sake," he cursed, but he was already laughing again. "Will you please do us both a favor and just fuck me with your finger and dick already?" he added, shaking his head, but dropping and tilting it when Brock put his mouth back on him, lips and tongue just at the edge of Steve's jaw. "Jerk," he muttered just to piss Brock off and save some fraction of pride. 

Brock did as he was asked. Helped Steve to get his knees up first before he inserted a finger, slow and careful then pushed his cock in alongside. 

For a brief second the thought of offering his own fingers flared up in the back of Steve's mind again, but even if he had wanted to change his mind, he wouldn't be able to. Not with every bone in his body screaming in exhaustion. Not with his body deciding to start shaking again. Not with how all strength had left every single muscle. So he swallowed it down. 

Brock seemed to fit just right anyway. Inside him. Between his legs. Seemed to belong on top of him like no other. 

And it was probably for that same twisted and sick part he'd noticed earlier that Steve found himself smiling at that realization. That his own dick stirred at the stretch, suddenly interested in a second round now. 

Fucking traitor. 

Lucky for Steve, Brock didn't see the obvious evidence of his renewed arousal, was busy anyway to go after his own release, and Steve tried his best to hide just how much he was participating in the whole affair. If Brock knew he'd let his mouth run free and Steve didn't know if he was ready yet to digest any more. 

He really, really tried. 

But on every other thrust Steve's cock caught the rough touch of Brock's skin, oversensitive and tender, the hairs down Brock's stomach and the working muscles beneath them. Split seconds of friction, maddeningly brief yet too much, driving Steve insane. 

And sooner rather than later subconsciousness took the better of him and his hips started moving without him realizing it, his dick swelling and his body leaning into every touch, meeting every thrust. 

And then it was Brock's turn to smirk. And Steve's turn to hide his blushing cheeks. 

"Feeling good there?" Brock teased, confirming that he was indeed an asshole. 

"Shut up," Steve mumbled into his pillow. Determined to ignore him. Him and all of- 

-that. 

"Hey, it's supposed to feel good for both of us, no?" Brock reminded him. Actually having a point this time. A point that made Steve smile and push back with more intent then. 

There was sweat on the tip of Brock's nose whenever he brushed it against Steve's, against his cheek or his forehead. His lips were parted constantly now, his breath too much and his kisses too chaste for Steve. 

It wasn't too long then until Brock abandoned all finesse, pushing into Steve without abandon, too close to his own climax to keep playing games. Wordlessly, he nudged Steve by the hips until he got the hint and started helping his second orgasm along with a hand. 

Steve whined at the touch, his own on top of Brock's inside him, and just a couple strokes later he was coming, his body pulling Brock in and over the edge, both of them diving head first into a shared bliss. 

For possibly the first time ever, Steve felt the discomfort of the mess beneath him, on him and between his legs in the aftermath of his high, felt slightly gross and used, and not in the better ways. 

Brock had one arm draped over his waist and his head on Steve's arm, but Steve couldn't deny the urge to shake him off so he could be alone. Be home, take a shower and then sleep in his own bed. 

"You're not staying, are you?" Brock asked, reading him despite his insistence that Steve was impossible to see through. 

"It's got nothing to do with you," Steve told him, knowing how lame he sounded. It was the truth though. 

"I can tell you feel weird," Brock said, making Steve frown. 

"How so?" he wondered. "Why now?"

"'Cause I feel weird too," Brock admitted. "Like we did something wrong."

"Didn't feel wrong," Steve argued, spared himself and Brock the addition of '_all the time_'. 

"Maybe you're just rubbing off on me," Brock offered and tilted his head so that Steve could see him smile. "In multiple ways." 

Steve was smiling back at him before he even knew it, didn't catch his hand when it moved without thinking, running its fingers through Brock's hair. 

"Maybe I don't care about love anymore either," Brock added, closed his eyes at Steve's touch. Leaned into it. Defying his own words. "Maybe I want to be like you."

"You wouldn't be able to stand the chatter on the street," Steve said, hoping Brock wouldn't misunderstand his teasing. 

"Maybe I'll start talking back," Brock offered, his eyes still closed as Steve cocked his head, considered it. Then took his time to just watch Brock. The color of his cheeks and the curve of his lips. The dark hairs over the sharp lines of his jaw. 

"I can see it," Steve conceded. 

"They'd think you stole my heart and they wouldn't be wrong," Brock said, kissing Steve just on the right spot on his chest without looking. 

"Not funny," Steve told him, although he knew Brock had meant to throw himself under the bus instead of Steve. "I'm not heartless. Though, I guess to most people it's all the same." 

"What do you mean?" Brock asked, opening his eyes so he could meet Steve's. Watched him as he spoke. Propped his chin up on Steve's biceps. 

"There are just some things most people don't get," Steve said. Watched Brock in return. His urge to leave fading with every passing second. "Can't allow. Or forgive." 

"Like?" Brock wondered with just the slightest frown. 

"Like not loving your family," Steve admitted, feeling the weight of the transgression on his tongue. "Not loving your parents." 

Brock watched him for another moment, motionless, before he pulled Steve closer with his arm and squeezed his side. 

"You know enough of my story by now to know I couldn't care any less about some shitty obligation to love your parents." He didn't try to lighten his words with a fake grin, nor did he try to distract from them. He held Steve's eyes until there was no doubt left that he was serious. That he didn't care. That's when he spoke again. "And maybe I'm learning about other obligations too." He paused, considered Steve for a second, trying to figure out if they were on the same page before he went on just to be sure. "Other obligations to love."

It shouldn't have felt as liberating as it did to hear him say that. To believe him. And Steve started to shiver under his gaze. 

Maybe this was what love was about. And romance. 

If so, Steve was tempted to indulge in it a little more often. 

"Do you still want me to stay over?" he asked, genuinely unsure with everything that had been said. 

"Are you kidding?" Brock asked back, biting his lips to hide a smile. "I'd be fucking thrilled," he told Steve, still trying to get his face under control. 

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me," Steve said, his voice lacking fire as his disbelief overshadowed the anger boiling below it. 

If he had known what he would run into just then, who he'd run into, he would have just stayed in bed. In Brock's bed. 

"Is this a joke?" someone else echoed behind him in the cabin. Not someone. Speak of the devil. By now Steve recognized Brock's voice without thinking twice about it. Without needing to turn around to reassure himself. He did it anyway though, glanced over his shoulder out the cockpit and met Brock's eyes head on. 

For a split second, Steve wondered if he'd stepped on the wrong plane, his brain struggling to place itself here as the person about to pilot this flight. 

But Brock wasn't alone, was standing next to the asshole that was Jack Rollins, so Steve knew this was definitely the right jet. 

He had left Brock's place before dawn, before he or Brock were awake enough to debate his decision. Before things like breakfast could come up, conversations over breakfast, touches over breakfast and plans for the day. 

When he'd left, Brock had acknowledged it with a grunt and a shove against Steve's shoulder, jacket of his uniform between their skin. 

The uniform that Steve had collected in pieces from the apartment floor, wrinkled and with the occasional dust bunny clinging to the fabric. 

Like he didn't care anymore. 

Like he was really losing it. Throwing it away. 

For Brock fucking Rumlow. 

It should have been his first clue that something was going terribly wrong. 

"Cap," Rollins said, grinned his usual grin. 

"Cap?" Brock echoed beside him, eyebrows raised. 

"I can't do this right now," Steve just said, mostly to himself, slamming the cockpit door shut with a bang. "What the fuck are you doing piloting private planes?" he hissed, wanted to shout but forced himself to keep his voice down. 

Buck stared back at him, caught and stressed, eyes wide as they darted back and forth between Steve and the cockpit door. 

"What the fuck are you doing piloting this plane?" Steve asked again, tossing his bag to the side. 

Buck just continued to stare at him, wide-eyed and paralyzed in his spot.

"Does Sam know?" Steve added then, feeling the betrayal rise up his throat like bile. 

Bucky shook his head, still too scared or too shocked to speak out. It was pretty obvious that he hadn't been expecting to see Steve either. 

"How long?" Steve pressed, trying to keep his anger in check so he could start making sense of this instead. "How long has this been going on?" 

"A few months," Bucky admitted, holding up his hands as if he expected Steve to get physical. 

"Months?" Steve repeated in disbelief, taking a step back as his hands came up in sheer helplessness. "Do you know that he's fucking worried you're going to sign up for another tour just so you could fly? That he got me involved in all this shit to make sure he was home more and you were happy?" 

"What are you talking about?" Buck asked, his posture changing as fear was swapped for confusion. He was frowning, lowered his hand before scratching the side of his head nervously. 

"The longhauls?" Steve reminded him, just standing there in the middle of the flight deck with his arms stupidly jerking to the sides in a 'duh'-motion. 

"That was because of me?" Buck asked, catching up way too slow for Steve's patience. 

So he just repeated the move. 

"Fuck," Buck just said, causing Steve to flail in frustration for a third time. 

"Why doesn't he know about this?" Steve pushed, pointed at nothing and everything. 

"Because it's not a regular thing. It's not a real job, okay?" Bucky said quickly. Defensive. Annoyed. "Yet. It's more of a trial run for now. Could be over any day." 

"Because of the accident?" Steve guessed, irritated though, and Bucky nodded. "Come on, you can't be serious. Every fucking airline loves to hire military pilots." 

"Not the ones who ended their careers in the hospital," Bucky argued, sighing in defeat just as Steve slumped down in the seat next to him with a similar mood. 

He was already so over this day. 

"So how'd you get this one?" he wondered, rubbing his eyes while he tried to fully calm down. 

"Pierce offered," Bucky just shrugged. "He doesn't care about the risks." 

"There's no risk," Steve said out of reflex. "You're a great pilot," he added. Meant it. Had no doubt about it.

"I didn't know you'd be here," Buck told him as if that hadn't been painfully obvious. "But I'm glad you are," he added quietly. "The whole thing. It killed me to keep it a secret, you know?" 

"Because it's a shitty secret," Steve remarked. His thoughts drifting to his own shitty secret in the cabin behind them. 

"Kind of adds to the pressure though," Bucky admitted quietly, throwing Steve a glance from the side. "To have you here," he added with a nervous laugh. 

Steve shook his head, but he cared too much about Bucky to not let half a smile take over his lips. "We're not done talking about this," he warned. "Fighting about it even. But for now, let's get this jet on the runway," he decided, settling more upright into his seat as he reached for the clipboard with their checklist on it. 

"Sir, yes, Sir," Buck said with a grin, scrambling to get into position himself. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this is (still) the story you chose to take your mind off things or to keep you company in isolation, i'm sending you so much [insert emotional need you'd wish to receive]!! ✈️

"So where does Sam think you are?" Steve asked, the question cutting through the tension in the cockpit. 

It had been hard concentrating on procedures when Buck was there right next to him. For the first time ever, sharing the flight deck. When it wasn't Sam, yet a very part of him. The one he loved. The one he'd die for. Bucky and Sam. And Steve caught up in the middle as always. 

Then there was the anxiety. Quietly whining in the back of his head. A steady white noise. The anxiety of relinquishing control. Controls. Foregoing command. Takeoff and descent. 

It was difficult enough at any given day, but today it felt impossible. Today Steve needed something to do. Something to go well. By his own hands. His own hands only. 

He had watched Bucky carefully. But not because he didn't trust him or didn't have faith in him as a pilot. Thoughts that had never been Steve's. In his eyes, Bucky was capable. Bucky was exceptional. Bucky was unfailing. 

But Steve had been flying for commercial airlines for so long that seeing Bucky do one or two things by a different handbook drew all his attention. Awakened some strange fascination within him. Something he'd thought long gone. Something he thought lost, buried under years of routine. 

Bucky was more precise during preflight checks, almost annoyingly so, yet not as concerned with monitoring weather conditions. Which wasn't particularly odd. 

It was Steve's obsession. Keeping an eye on the sensors at all times. Checking forecasts by the minute. It wasn't necessary. They wouldn't get clearance for takeoff if a storm was underway, but it was a habit Steve couldn't shake or tone down. The smooth approaches and soft landings he was known for were based more on science than skills. 

Steve wasn't naturally gifted, despite what people thought. But he wasn't one to rely on plain luck either. He had simply nursed and curated a talent for timing. And nine times out of ten, he read weather conditions so well they helped him overperform on duty. 

Bucky was different. It was what Steve liked about him. Bucky was skill matched with confidence, matched with talent. With fearlessness. Bucky wouldn't focus on things beyond his control. And why would he now if it was never an option in the first place. Fighter jets were sent out on stealth missions and into battle at any time. Day and night, during heavy rain and sand storms. That was just how things were. And Buck was prepared to handle whatever came his way. 

When system and engines were eventually running, Steve clenched his jaw to stop his ego from taking over his mouth. His words. To keep his ego from asking Buck to let him have this. Let him have the runway. Let him have those airborne minutes. Let him have something, something more. Because what Steve had was never enough. Was never good enough if he couldn't have it now. Whenever he wanted. 

But he didn't ask. Let Bucky take care of it. Steve watching him. The way his hands moved smoothly without hesitation. 

Everything on board was the same as on other aircrafts. Everything should have been familiar to Steve too, --was familiar to him,-- and yet, as slightly as it was, the scale was off. And one or two times, Steve found himself taking a second longer than usually to read controls or flip a switch. It was irritating and frustrating and it nagged at his confidence. Just one more thing piling on top of the others. Buck. Buck and Sam. Sam at home with just lies to keep him company. Brock. Brock on this plane. Some fucked up twist of fate. 

And now they were six miles up in the air, heading for Washington DC, and Stebe couldn't take the silence anymore. He needed to start unravelling this mess. His mess. He needed to uncomplicate things. 

"Come on, Buck, you have to tell him something, no?" Steve tried again.

Bucky just glanced over at him, then continued staring ahead. Empty blue eyes onto an empty blue sky. 

"Don't tell me he doesn't care whether you come home or not," Steve warned. Thinking of Sam and the way he had changed since Buck. "Because I know he does," Steve insisted. "He wouldn't let you stay a night if he didn't know where you were and that you were okay." 

"No, he wouldn't," Buck agreed, still avoiding Steve's eyes though. "Of course, he wouldn't. It's Sam," he added like that should simply be self-explanatory. And somehow, it was. It was to Steve too. Because it was Sam. And Sam was everything Steve was not. 

"So?" Steve pressed, drowning out those thoughts. 

"So what?" Buck asked, refusing still to give an answer.

"So what do you tell him when you do this?" Steve tried for a third time. 

"I usually '_do this_'," Bucky started, mocking Steve's choice of words, "when he's working too. So I don't have to find excuses. Explain anything." 

"Well, he's not working today," Steve stated, questioning his own choice to sacrifice his day off for this. He longed for his place now. The privacy, the quiet. Longed to be stretched out on his bed, blinds down and curtains closed. Just him and the vague idea of daylight. The city and time moving on without him. Endless intimate minutes spent with himself. Room to breathe. For his body to soothe those aching parts from the night before. To catalogue the changes within. He needed it painfully now. Wished he would have known before just how much. 

Bucky fell stoically silent again, paying no attention to Steve and his errors. Errors that started to dawn on him now. Realizing what Bucky couldn't say. What he was trying to hide, but didn't dare to lie about. 

"He's working," Steve said, defeated by the realization. And Bucky started to look pained. 

"What do you want me to say, Steve?" he asked finally, his voice reflecting the struggle as he glanced over at Steve again with some unease. "He wants the hours." 

It was barely thirty minutes after takeoff, yet Steve felt sick of it already. Felt over it. Over flying. Flying with Bucky. Flying with Sam. Tired of his job. The hoops he was jumping through lately to keep things going. To keep people happy. 

He'd taken Pierce's offer to get out of his head, out of Bucky's and Sam's heads, and into work for just a day. Soak up some professionalism co-piloting for some colleague he barely knew. 

Now he was right back. Stuck in between the two again. In between the three of them and the fragility of their constellation. Struggling to give purpose to it all. Purpose to the past month. To his choices. Struggling to see what he'd done it for. 

"I thought he was looking to be home more," he said, sounding lethargic even to himself. Feelings of anger and confusion, of hurt and irritation amounting to nothing. To an empty voice and an empty bed. 

Had he done it for sex? For a chance to get something back? Replay a one time thing? Was he that shallow? That desperate for it? 

For a second he wondered why Buck and him had never fucked in the past. Just the two of them, both of them single. Why he and Sam had never gone there. Why it had only been possible that night. With all three. Wondered what hole Sam and Bucky created for each other, one just big enough to fit Steve and only Steve. One that wouldn't exist otherwise. 

"He's just trying to get ahead," Bucky explained again, then shut down visibly. Annoyed. Annoyed with that same hole and Steve in the middle of it. "Jesus Steve," he started again suddenly, airing his frustration. "You two need to start talking to each other and leave me out of it," he finished, done with Steve's questions. Just as tired of being caught between the two as Steve was. 

"You were the reason things changed in the first place," Steve reminded him. Bucky hadn't gotten caught up in things. He had started this. 

"That's not fair," Buck said quietly yet tense. "I didn't know. And you could have said no, you know?" 

Steve shook his head. Instantly knowing what he wasn't going to say out loud. He wouldn't argue that he didn't have to change the bids, but the truth was he couldn't have said no. Not if it was for Bucky. Not if it was for Sam. For the both of them. Maybe he was prioritizing relationships. Just never his own.

"Who is he flying with?" Steve asked, then rushed to take it back. "You know what, don't tell me," he added immediately, recognizing how it would sound. Jealous. "It doesn't matter." 

"This isn't about you," Bucky insisted. But as usual, the assurance had the opposite effect. "He's still your first officer. He just needs this right now, okay?"

It wasn't. 

It wasn't okay because it didn't make sense. 

"He already has what he wanted," Steve argued out loud. "The long hauls, the extra pay, the additional time off. All those three day weekends with you," he listed, trying not just to convince Bucky, but convince the universe that it had gotten the timeline wrong. "And now what?" Steve asked. "Now he's put himself on call? You know how many reserve pilots would die to have steady bids?" 

"I do know, Steve," Bucky said through gritted teeth, reminding Steve of his own situation. Shit.

"I didn't mean-," Steve tried, but he knew he was out of line by now. "Look, sorry," he apologized. "If Sam wants to make captain, I'm the last to stop him. Or be in his way. I've been trying to get him back on track, I don't have the right to complain now," Steve reckoned. "I should be happy for him instead." 

"Oh, keep that self-sacrificing shit away from me," Buck just said, shaking his head. It made Steve laugh. But because it was so fucking tragic. That Buck didn't see. That Steve hadn't either. It was already happening. Had been happening all this damn time. 

"Why'd you keep this from me?" Steve asked carefully once more. "From me and Sam?" He still needed an answer. 

Bucky pushed his back deeper into his seat, stretching out his shoulders for a second. Buying time. Steve knew him too well to not recognize his tells. 

"It's complicated, Steve," he said eventually. "It's really fucking complicated."

_'It's complicated.' _

The same phrase echoing back in Steve's ear. Over lunch in a pilots' lounge. Him and Sam in Dallas. Steve had to take a deep breath, asking himself how he'd gotten here. To _complicated_. 

_'It's complicated.' _

And yet nothing had ever been complicated before. When it was the three of them. Against all odds. They weren't complicated. They were easy. His best friends and him. Nothing between them. No secrets, no lies. Hardly any boundaries. No jealousy. No worries, nothing. They were good. They were fine. They were easy. 

Or maybe he was just too stubborn to see what was right in front of him. Too ignorant to pay attention to what was looming beneath the surface. 

_'You think Bucky misses flying?' _

_'Wouldn't you?' _

_'But that's just love, Steve. A small part of me is always scared I'm going to lose him. Lose him to you.' _

"What's going on Buck?" Steve tried again. "What's going on with the two of you?" He needed to know. "Sam's not just worried that you're bored at home without him. That you're unhappy. He's worried you're going to leave. Is that what you're doing? Are you leaving him?" he asked, said it out loud. Wondered if it wasn't just Sam's fear but his own. If Nat had been right all along. 

"No," Buck insisted instantly. Too fast for it to not be reflex.

"Are you out sabotaging all of it?" Steve cut in before Bucky could get another word out. He didn't like the thought of it, but in the end it was none of his business. Bucky wasn't his to keep. Wasn't Sam's. Wasn't anyone's. 

"I'm not sabotaging anything," Bucky insisted. "It's just a job. One that can end any day now. Sam doesn't need to know if it could fall apart the next week." 

"So what if you get fired a week from now?" Steve asked. "A month from now? He wouldn't judge you, he'd support you. He wants you to be happy," he reminded Bucky again. "He only wants you to be happy. Because he loves you." 

"This supposed to mean anything?" Bucky asked, scoffing and shaking his head. 

"Coming from me?" Steve guessed, ready to hear it. Dared Buck to spell it out. 

"Steve," he said instead gently, turned his head to look at Steve fully for once. Waited for their eyes to meet before he went on. "I know you're smart," he added calmly, "so it hurts my head when you're being this stupid. Of course that's not what I meant." 

He looked back to check that they were still on course, then adjusted their altitude by half a thousand feet to avoid traffic. He was used to worse distractions than just a stupid fight with Steve. 

"I'm not ready yet," Buck continued then only to pause for another couple of seconds. "For Sam's plans," he clarified. "I'm just not." 

"He doesn't want any of it if it isn't with you," Steve said. 

Maybe it was these doubts, these hesitations that had always left room in between Buck and Sam for Steve to fill. 

But Sam didn't want Steve if it wasn't with Bucky either. 

"What if I have to go back, Steve?" Buck asked, finally brave enough to put it out there. "What if I need to go back to be happy? To feel like myself again?" 

"It's war, Buck," Steve reminded him gently. Bucky already knew. That happiness couldn't be found in war. That soldiers weren't meant to be themselves. But he was too stubborn to see that this was where he belonged. Chicago. With Sam. 

"What if that's what it takes?" Buck asked. Simply too damn stubborn to see. 

"Then he'll let you go," Steve said. Giving advice to himself. 

"He'd try everything to change my mind first," Bucky told him. "He already is." There was a pause, some silent deliberation in Bucky's face. Tense jaw and furrowed brows. "He doesn't need the hours to make captain, Steve," he said finally, paying him more attention now than he had throughout the entire first half of their flight. "He's applying for a new job. He has his eyes on a position at Chicago's flight school. He wants to quit the airline." 

Steve knew he was being watched because Buck expected him to react badly to the news. But all Steve could do was scoff and shake his head in disbelief. No way was Sam _Falcon_ Wilson going to be content just teaching. 

"Look," Bucky started, went on without any regard to Steve's feelings. Or because he couldn't stand them. Couldn't face them. "I don't want Sam to quit flying with you, but it's nice having him home," Bucky told him. "It's really fucking great to have him home. But it doesn't mean I want to get married. Start a family. It doesn't mean that I don't want to either though. I don't know what would make me happy. I don't know what I want. Not now. Not yet." 

"So you just trust Sam to know that," Steve said bitterly. "Do the right thing for you." He suddenly felt bad for the burden Sam had taken on. Keep Buck happy at all costs. The burden Steve had taken on too. 

"More than me at least," Bucky admitted. "I'm still figuring this out. I'm still trying to learn about myself. But he isn't me and if he wants to change jobs, I'm not going to stop him."

"So what's your plan?" Steve asked, anger working its way through his body. "You want me to keep quiet while watching him ruin his life. Want me to not tell him about the giant mistake he'd make quitting the airline? While you take all the time in the world figuring out whether flying private jets scratches the itch just enough to prevent you from going on another suicide mission?" 

"Can't be too hard for you, can it?" Bucky assumed, tone sour. "You've been avoiding him for weeks. Us." 

"I've been adjusting," Steve reminded him. "I've been jet lagged all the fucking time." 

"Oh, is Captain America struggling with time zones now?" Bucky asked sarcastically. 

"It's not Captain All Around The Fucking World, is it?" Steve countered, annoyed. He was pissed now. Pissed to have to coordinate his own lies and secrets. 

"You've been getting back at Sam by staying away from us," Bucky said, thinking he had Steve all figured out. 

"I'm sure he was happy to have you to himself for a change," Steve told him. Couldn't let it go. Still hurt by what Sam had accused him off. 

"You're an idiot if you think he doesn't want you around," Buck argued. "He loves you and he misses you. You're in this relationship whether you want it or not." 

"In this relationship?" Steve echoed questioningly.

"You know what I mean," Bucky said. "You're part of our lives. Our home." 

Maybe he was. Maybe he had always wanted to be. But hearing it now made him feel sick. He was tired of it even more now. Was craving to be in his apartment once again. Craving to turn back time. 

"I'm not some stray dog you adopt to fill some emotional void," Steve said. All of it making him sick now. 

"No, you're just an asshole we call our best friend," Bucky remarked. "You're over us, aren't you?" he asked then, knowing how to read Steve in return. "Over our drama."

"I was never into you," Steve clarified. If only to throw some of the hurt back that filled his chest. 

"Then you and I have very different memories," Bucky said quietly. 

"Maybe we have," Steve agreed. He wasn't done yet. "Were you unhappy then too?" he asked. "Trying to fix what you were missing with something else?" 

He didn't want to hear it, but he needed to know. Needed to know if Buck was unhappy that same night they'd got drunk and decided to redefine the limits to their friendship. 

"You're not that good in bed, Steve," Buck tried, but it couldn't convince Steve of the opposite. "You can't fix everything with sex, you know? Is that so hard for you to believe?" he wondered, pushing hard into the wound that hurt most. 

So Steve nodded. Ran out of things to say. To retaliate. "You can't keep lying to him, Buck," was all he could force out instead. "Not about this," he added in quiet defense of himself. 

"I know," Buck just said. "He might still quit." His tone was softer now, like he was done with hurting too. Like he was making an effort to be careful with his words. "I might put on a uniform again," he added honestly. "You know how it is. Missing what you do best. Constantly. It never goes away." 

"I won't stop you," Steve let him know. Tired, defeated, exhausted. "Not Sam, not you." 

"You have to talk to him too," Bucky told him. "You have to forgive him at some point."

"I know," Steve echoed, though he didn't know where to begin. It was his own choice after all. And it was difficult to find anyone to blame but himself for all the resentment that had followed. 

"I wasn't unhappy," Bucky said then, holding Steve's gaze with intent."Of course, I wasn't unhappy." 

"Buck," Steve tried. Everything hurting still. Nothing genuine enough to take it all back. "It was a one time thing," Steve said. Remembering what Sam had said and wanting to respect that. "I don't know why I brought it up in the first place," he added, wishing he could just make himself let go of it. 

"You sure about that?" Bucky asked, almost annoyingly serious. 

"Pretty sure," Steve just told him. Reminding himself. 

"Yeah, well," Buck started, shrugged. "Just saying," he added, his lips holding back a smile as they approached DC. "Doesn't have to be." 

And yet, it had to be. 

* * *

"You were right and I made a fucking mistake," Steve announced, stressed as he walked back towards the hotel. Cradling his phone between ear and shoulder so he could secure the lid on his coffee with both hands. 

"Um," Nat said at the other end of the line, trying to catch up with his ambushing call. "Told you so?" she asked, sounding confused and busy too. Of course she was busy. It was long after nine and her workday was about to just begin. "Where are you?" she asked. 

"DC," he told her, taking a sip and burning his tongue. "Shit," he cursed. "Sorry. Are you heading out now?"

"In a bit," Nat said. "Steve, what the hell is going on?"

"I didn't take your advice, when I should have," Steve admitted. "I should have never changed the bids. Maybe it made them happier for a while, but it didn't solve the problem. At all."

"Sam and Bucky?" she guessed. "What are you doing in DC?"

"Working," he told her, before he went on. Keeping all strings of their conversation going at once. "Yeah, it's more complicated than being apart because of work. It's Bucky. Sam was right. But it's complicated," he agreed at last. "Definitely for them to figure out. Not me." 

"Well," Nat started. The simple sound of her voice able to lift some of Steve's darker moods immediately. "I told you so," she said again, only with more conviction this time. 

"Sorry to be calling this late," he told her, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "I thought you'd like to know," he added, but it was a lie. He had wanted to hear her voice. Had needed it. But the call did nothing to help him miss her less.

"Always," she just said. "Is everything okay?" 

"Not really," he admitted, entering the lobby but hovering in front of the elevators. "I've been miserable." 

"That's a first," she said gently. 

"Fucking long hauls," he muttered. "Fucking time zones. You already in uniform?" he asked, his thoughts drifting back to the photos. Back to better times. Both of them just memories now.

"You know it," she said and he could hear her smile. "When are you coming back?"

"Tomorrow," Steve told her, wishing it was sooner. He looked around the lobby to make sure he had some privacy. "It's not complicated like that, is it Nat? With us?" he asked quietly. Feeling insecure. An emotion he wasn't this familiar with until recently. 

"I don't think so," she just said, sounding a lot more confident. And it was exactly what Steve needed right now. "Unless you're going to start making it complicated," she added, but laughed as she said it. 

"You worry about that?" he asked. Then brought his coffee back to his parted lips. Thirsty. Thinking of just her. 

"Never," she just said. 

Right. Steve wasn't complicating things. Ever. Steve was easy. Things with Steve were easy. Clean cut. No strings attached. 

"You know, I've been meaning to call you," she went on, pulling Steve from unnecessary thoughts. 

"Why's that?" he asked circling a finger over the imprints on the plastic lid. Tracing letters and numbers absently. 

"Because," she said, dragging out the word, "I'm not the only one looking forward to having you back in Chicago." 

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, his interest piqued. His heart was already beating with the answer. The answer he had forgotten to wait for. Forgotten to anticipate. 

"We're in if you still are," she just said. Casually. Like it was nothing. Like it was easy. The sound of her shoes echoing through the line. Nat on her way to her gate, offering Steve just the right thing. At just the worst fucking time. 

"What's wrong?" she asked, his silence speaking for itself. "You've lost interest?"

He hadn't. But his silence hadn't been about that. He'd never lose interest in Nat. He didn't think he could. Just like he could never lose interest in Sam and Buck. 

"Would you believe me if I told you that you're not the first couple offering me sex today?" he asked, deflecting. But it wasn't Bucky, he was thinking about. It was Brock. And the things he had agreed to so he could satisfy his interest in him. 

"Lucky you," she just said, her tone enough to make him half hard and pitifully wistful. "So?" 

"I-," Steve started, _'ll think about it _was what he wanted to finish with. But it wouldn't come past his lips. "Can't." 

There was a change in the noises on the line, as if Nat had come to a halt, or turned towards a quieter corner. But it wasn't just her who he had surprised. Himself too. 

"Is this because of what Sam said to you?" she wondered, sounded so concerned that just the thought of lying to her made him hurt all over again. 

"I'm seeing someone, Nat," he said, eyes squeezed shut over words so foreign in his mouth. So strange that he washed them away with another sip of his coffee. "Like that," he added helplessly. "Seeing someone like that." 

"Oh," was all Nat said, the phone on Steve's ear painfully quiet then. 

"I'm sorry," he said. Feeling sorry for the secret. For having to tell her no. For having to tell himself no. 

"It's the guy from Sam's birthday, isn't it?" Nat asked, keeping her voice down over the phone. "Brock," she added, but it wasn't a question anymore. 

"I can't say," Steve said honestly, although he knew he was giving it away all the same. On the other end, Nat drew in an irritating heavy breath. "What is it?" Steve asked, resting his coffee against his lips as he waited, teeth grazing over the plastic. 

"You should talk to Bucky," she simply suggested, making Steve frown. 

"I'm talking to you," he insisted. The thought of telling Buck about Brock writhing in his head like a lasting nightmare. Whether he owed him or not. "Come on, Nat," he almost pleaded, his body frozen in place with tension. "Just tell me what I need to know." 

Nat's struggle was palpable even over the phone. Steve knew it wasn't fair. Not with her running low on time. With how much their friendship weighed. Maybe now more than ever before. 

"He and Bucky have history," she said finally, putting their friendship first. Maybe in the same way Steve had by telling her about Brock in the first place. Telling her as much he could without violating the privacy Brock had asked for. "From New York," she added. "From the army." 

A long time ago. A long time since Steve alone in Chicago. A long time before Brock in Chicago. Before his discharge. Before Buck's accident. Before Bucky and Sam. And Sam's birthday. 

"What kind of history," Steve asked. He didn't want to jump to conclusions.

"They were hooking up for a while," she told him. "At least that's what he told me." 

"Bucky can't stand him," Steve said. It was almost an argument, but predominantly just plain confusion. 

"Now he can't," she said. "Because it didn't end well." 

"What happened," Steve pressed, paper cup balanced in his hand as he scratched along the sides with the nail of his thumb to distract himself from his surroundings. Nat's voice all that mattered now. 

"According to Bucky, he was possessive and controlling and jealous and an asshole," she said. "If I remember correctly." 

It did sound like Brock and it didn't sound good. That much Steve had to admit. But none of it was news to Steve. None of it was beyond what he could handle. What he was already handling well. 

"Is that it?" Steve asked, trying to remind himself that Nat wasn't part of any of it. That she was doing him a favor by telling him. There was nothing to take out on her.

"He thinks he's dangerous, Steve," Nat clarified gently. Gave him time to take it in. Consider it. 

"He's changed," Steve assured her, although he was well aware that Brock was still a work in progress. "Things have changed," he added, although he wasn't quite sure why he felt the need to defend him. Why it mattered. Here. And to Nat. Who was only looking out for Steve. 

But he remembered Brock talking about his father, his family. The jobs he couldn't keep. 

"Does he know you're friends?" Nat asked. "You and Bucky." 

"Does it matter?" Steve wondered. "He knows I'm friends with Sam. He knows they're a couple." 

"It matters because there's more to the story," she said, her tone a warning. 

"Is this about his discharge?" Steve asked. "I already know it was because of his sexuality?" he added, lowering his voice as if saying sexuality in public was considered a crime. But it wasn't because of that. It simply hurt to say it. To know the impact it had on Brock's life. The worst kind. "It's not a secret." 

"It's more complicated than that," Nat told him and by now Steve resented that word. Complicated. "Worse than that," she added. 

"How much worse? he asked, the cup in his hand feeling used and worn out by now. But he couldn't let go of it. Needed something to hold on to. Something aside from his phone. 

"His jealousy," she started, taking a split second break to gather words and courage. Too fast for Steve to do the same. "Bucky said it was out of control," she continued. "And they were in a warzone, Steve," Nat reminded him. "His behavior put people in danger. It put Bucky in danger. He didn't have a choice but to report him," she said like she believed it. Like Steve should. As if Bucky would never lie about something like that. As if Bucky would never lie. "For harassment," Nat added, though she didn't have to. "To a senior officer."

That was how much worse it could get. 

A life ruined worse. 

To protect another. 

Brock's life for Bucky's. 

Not that Steve would have chosen any differently. 

"What now?" Steve asked, though he was still processing the last two minutes. 

"I don't know," Nat admitted. 

"When did Buck tell you?" Steve added, still confused. 

"The night after the party," she told him. "The double date," she reminded him. "After you left with him. With Brock." 

"He didn't tell me," Steve pointed out, as if it made a difference. 

"He's not proud of it," she explained. 

"And he shouldn't be," Steve agreed, his body coming to life as he finally decided to rid himself of the empty paper cup. 

"Look, Steve I really have to get going," Nat said, sounding torn on possible regrets. But Steve appreciated her honesty. Her willingness to tell him. "Maybe you're right and he's changed," she added, "but back then he wasn't one of the good guys."

"According to Bucky," Steve finished for her. 

"Yes," Nat allowed, "according to Bucky." 

"This isn't any of my business," Steve said, knowing it wasn't going to save him this time. Spare him any trouble. 

"I didn't tell you so you would pick a side," Nat said, as if it was nothing. But it was something. "I'm just looking out for you." 

"Talk to you soon?" he asked, already feeling sore from the mere thought of hanging up on her. 

"Call me when you get home," she said, her voice soothingly light again.

"Hey, Nat?" Steve started again. Waited for her to hum on the other end before he continued. "Thank you," he put out there, because it needed to be said. "For this. For telling me." 

* * *

When he'd left Buck behind in their hotel room to get a coffee, he was sitting at the edge of the bed, nervous hands on his thighs and about to call Sam. 

And things were different. 

Just an hour ago. With Buck ready to come clean, to share his own truth. A different confession. Not the one Steve had carried up the elevator and down the floor just now. 

An hour ago, Steve had thought about entertaining something like hope. Cautiously allowing himself to think of change as a good thing. He'd begun to mentally detangle himself from Sam and Buck. Knowing he didn't have a choice if he'd wanted to rid himself of certain emotions. Feelings of inadequacy. Of being used to fix things he couldn't understand. Relationship issues. Being a distraction. A concession. The thing that kept them from figuring out what they wanted. 

Now he didn't know anymore where he stood. Didn't know the significance of things happening over a decade ago. Didn't know if there was a side to pick. Knew exactly which one he'd pick anyway. The one he'd always picked. The one he could barely look in the eye anymore. 

Bucky was still on his bed, as Steve got back to their room, still on his phone. He acknowledged Steve's presence with a nod and a smile, but didn't let Sam know. 

Steve frowned at that, but he kept quiet anyway. Dug through his bag instead to look for his headphones. By the time he'd found them, Bucky had already taken his call into the bathroom. Whether it was a good sign or a bad sign, Steve couldn't guess. 

He ditched his headphones and turned on the TV instead, switching channels until it gave him a headache. 

Then he rolled over, pretending to be asleep. 

Like a fucking child.

Pretending. Pretending until he didn't know anymore what was real. 

With his eyes heavy and tired, lids sticking together, refusing to see, he was lying awake for hours. His thoughts feeling like dreams, memories blurring into conversations he hadn't had yet. Into accusations. Into love confessions. Sitting heavy on Steve's chest like sleep paralysis. Every lost string another false awakening. 

Words and voices scattered between past and present. Nat. Nat, who always knew better. Who always knew. Who knew now. Buck and Sam. And Brock. Mixed messages all around. Fucking with Steve's head. 

_'Everyone loves you.' _  
_'We love you.' _  
_'I love you. I trust you. We were drunk.' _

_'You're a bit much to handle.' _

_'Love this aftershave.' _  
_'Love your skin.' _  
_'Love feeling you close up around anything I give you.' _

_'That's fucked up.' _

_'You're a lifesaver.' _  
_'You're a blessing.' _  
_'A masterpiece.' _

_'This is like being corrupted.' _

_'Maybe I don't care about love anymore. Maybe I want to be like you.' _

_'A little loose.' _  
_'Such a mess.' _  
_'A goddamn slut.' _

_'We're in if you are.' _

He startled fully awake as if touched, but once his eyes stopped burning from the shock and got used to the dark he saw that Bucky lay on his front snoring quietly into his pillow. 

Steve watched him for a solid minute, wondering if he'd ever seen him like this. If so, he couldn't recall. 

Then he got his phone out his pocket and stared at the painfully bright screen. 

From Nat Yesterday 10:31PM  
You should still talk to Bucky. 

Steve looked back up, knowing she was right. Like she usually was. But it wasn't the first time he was too caught up in his own head to take her advice. Too caught up in what he believed. Wanted to believe. Wanted to hold on to. 

Without giving it much thought he opened his contacts and pulled up Brock's number. Some things couldn't wait until morning. 

For some reason, he had expected him to pick up, to jump at the thought of talking to him, but when Brock didn't, Steve hung up feeling relieved. He had no idea what to say. Where to start. No idea what he was looking for. Or wanted to hear. 

He tried to breathe, get some clarity inside his body, some peace. Figure out why life had to be so complicated. Not life. Relationships. Every relationship full of triggers waiting to be pulled. To blow it all up. History well and alive, an arrow drawn back until it snapped loose. Slashing through present and future alike, leaving everyone cut open and bleeding. 

He typed out a reply to Nat, then deleted it. Tried again, but closed the app just a second later. It was her voice he wanted to hear again, but she was working now, safely delivering a plane full of cargo in the calm of the night. Then deadheading back in the morning. He pictured her having breakfast at the airport. Hot coffee and thinking of him in return. Maybe he shouldn't have said no to her. To her and Clint. Maybe it was just what he'd needed. A fresh start. A familiar face. Someone new. 

Yet, something had made the decision for him. Some conspiracy of guts and tongue. And who was he to fight it. His body knew best. Had always known best. 

He was still thinking about it, when his phone lit up, Brock Rumlow calling him back. Steve stared, thumb frozen in place. Then he looked back at Bucky, stressing out over what to do. 

A sharp breath and the tap of his finger onto 'decline', then he opened his messages again, navigating not into his chat with Nat, but Brock. 

To Brock 3:11AM  
Can you meet me outside for a second?

To Brock 3:11AM  
Outside in the hallway? 

It was better to talk in person. His body was good deciding for him on the phone, but it was even better choosing for him in person. His body knew what it wanted and he was tired to reason with it over loyalty. Over sanity. 

He needed to see Brock and when he finally got a reply two minutes later he knew he wasn't alone. 

From Brock 3:13AM  
i'll be right out. 

It had been a shitty thing to do, but Bucky hadn't cared and Steve was in need of some room to breathe. Alexander Pierce was a cheap contractor who always booked double rooms for his pilots. Something so annoying to Buck that he had considered quitting once or twice before, depending on his co-pilot. Knowing that Pierce hadn't been travelling alone, but brought security, Bucky had worked his charm at the reception and asked to see both rooms before checking in, both of them picking the bigger one. The one with a tub and a separate shower. The one with the two full sized beds instead of the twins. Steve hadn't felt bad about it until now. 

It was how he knew that Brock and Rollins were staying on that same floor, just down the hallway, closer to the elevators. 

He fished his shoes out from underneath the bed, left his phone on his nightstand to charge, and walked out in his socks. He wished he didn't give a fuck whether he'd wake Bucky or not, but he did. So he was careful not to trip or run straight into some forgotten furniture, --some ghost chair no hotel guest ever sat on,-- careful all the way until he was out the door. 

He reached Brock's room right the second he pulled the door into its lock, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the hall. 

Brock was smiling, though he looked tired and half awake only. 

This was a line Steve didn't know how to walk. Allowing Brock his past, his privacy. The benefit of the doubt. Let him let his mistakes rest in peace and give room to growth. Be generous in forgiving. Forgetting.

Acknowledge Buck's side of the story all the same. His concerns, the worries he'd had. Worries so severe he'd carried them with him to this day. Respect them. Be loyal to them. To him. 

There were probably rights and wrongs here. Easy enough to pick one side over the other. One of them being the bad guy. Fifteen or so years in the past. All the same just two months ago.

Usually Steve would have. Picked a side. Would have picked Bucky over everything. Bucky and Sam. Without realizing. Prioritizing without realizing. Self-sacrificing without realizing. Finding other means of justification. Friendship, attraction, loyalty. The prospect of another night together. Indifference to the other side. Doing good even. Or just being polite. All things that made him swallow a sour taste now. 

He wouldn't do it for Bucky now, end things before they ruined everything. If he did, he'd do it for himself. 

"Trouble sleeping?" 

Brock's voice was tired like the rest of him. Tired like the rest of Steve. Caffeine and worries keeping him up, keeping his heart racing with stress and anger. 

"Been a strange day," Steve told him. One truth at a time. 

"You look good," Brock said then, mirroring his words with his eyes. "Can't believe you look this good at three in the fucking morning," he added more quietly. 

It took Steve some solid amount of self-control to stay put. Not because of what Brock had said. Not because it was particularly meaningful. But because it was blunt and honest and without second thought. It was what Steve needed. 

"You okay?" Brock asked, as if there was an easy answer to it. 

And Steve wanted to be okay. Nothing more than being okay. He had wanted to be okay for weeks now. And he'd found some of it with Brock. Rediscovered the part of himself that could be okay in the midst of everything. With Brock. 

"You know me and Bucky are friends, right?" Steve started, he didn't want to drag this out. 

He didn't want to hide behind small talk, though he was aware he sometimes hid behind the truth all the same. Used it as a shield so nothing could ever stick to him. 

Brock nodded. Nodded differently. Knowingly. Like he'd expected it to come to this, just not this soon. Like this was part of a nightmare and yet he was relieved to see it come to life. 

"Your history doesn't matter to me," Steve said, though it wasn't what he was supposed to say. It did matter. It was supposed to matter to him. He was supposed to pick a side. "I just want to know if it has anything to do with this," he went on. None of this was painful anymore, none of it heavy and twisted and coiled, refusing to come to light. Now it was what it was. The truth impartial to feelings. And he didn't want to lie to Brock. Not for one second. "Because I can't do this if it's going to get more complicated," he explained, so goddamn tired of this word. "More fucked up than it already is." 

"Fucked up?" Brock asked. Not pleased with Steve's choice of words. It didn't matter. They were as precise as they could ever be. As true as they could ever be. 

"Some late revenge or whatever this is," Steve said. Surprised by his own voice. Wondering just how bitter and hurt he sounded to someone who knew heartache and jealousy better than him. 

"Whatever this is?" Brock asked, ignoring most of Steve's words in favor of picking at something as useless as a label. "Did last night really mean that little to you?" Brock wondered, but he was too eager to let his anger out than to give Steve a chance to reflect on it. "I took pity on you, you know?" he added, like the asshole he was. Had ever been. "And suddenly _my_ history is the problem. Mine," he stressed in disbelief. "This has to be a fucking joke."

"I-," Steve started, confused, feeling his headache return, "-never said it was. I said it doesn't matter to me." 

"It was a long time ago," Brock jumped right in, once more disregarding what Steve had to say. 

"You don't have to do this," he tried again. He didn't particularly enjoy seeing Brock struggling like that. Nervously seeking steady ground with feet and words alike. 

"It's got nothing to do with this. With Us." Brock assured him suddenly. Almost forcefully insistent. "This is between us." He gestured between them to make an unnecessary point. "Only us. I'm over it. Over him." 

"Over him?" Steve asked, his brains stumbling over itself. Quick to reel it all back in, reboot and go over it again. Back from the top once more. 

"Yes," Brock confirmed for him. "Over him. We had a thing, we fooled around, we broke up. Nothing special." 

"Broke up?" Steve repeated. Treading carefully now. If Brock didn't know about Bucky, what he'd done, done to him, his life, things were indeed going to get more complicated. More fucked up. 

"I was kicked out of the Air Force, I told you that," Brock reminded him. "And long distance never works." 

Fuck. 

"Long distance, huh?" he asked, wishing himself back to the peace of the truth. Of spelling things out. That one second he thought things would get better from here on out. 

"Jesus, Steve," Brock started annoyed. "Am I speaking a different language or what is your problem? Yes, long distance. You of all people should know where that guy has been before his accident. All around the goddamn world." 

Steve knew. He knew because they couldn't even make long distance friendship work. But that was different. It was different from Bucky ridding himself of Brock. Unless he'd tried to rid himself of Steve all the same. Like he was trying to rid himself from them now. Him and Sam. A two for one deal. 

"I know," Steve said, his voice threatening to leave him for a bit. Just enough to process, to get his thoughts straight. He took a moment to remind himself of Buck. His best friend. Who wasn't like that. Wasn't at all like Steve's worst thoughts. "Just didn't know you tried to make it work," he added, so much he didn't know. 

"What did he tell you?” Brock wondered. And rightfully so. 

"Just that-, just that it ended after you left," he lied. Truth grinning while Steve couldn't bear to keep spitting in its face. Did so nonetheless. "After you had to leave," he corrected. Buck hadn't told him anything. And Nat hadn't told him about the end. About the aftermath. It was all lies and wild guesses. "Did you love him?" Steve asked.

_'Are you angry because I love him? Because we love each other?' _

"Steve, I-," Brock started, shaking his head. His body reacting to the question. His body answering the question. Steve didn't know. "I don't really remember how I felt back then," Brock explained. "I think I was being protective," he said slowly. "In a way, I felt responsible for him. The whole time. I was worried they were going to kick him out too. That whoever saw us or found out about us, that whoever reported me knew enough about what was going on to report him too." 

Whoever found out. No one had. No one needed to. 

"They didn't," Steve said, knowing the painful truth behind it. Painful either way. Bucky ruining Brock's life. Brock ruining Buck's life. Brock ruining his own life. 

_'He's dangerous.' _

"I was the one who should have known better," Brock said. As if he knew. Steve's thoughts free to roam between them. "It's only fair that I took the fall for it," Brock added. He kept his head up and his eyes on Steve as if he was accepting some rightful late punishment. 

Only fair. 

Maybe it was. 

Maybe Steve could leave it at that. Maybe Buck could. Maybe Brock could. 

It was only fair. 

Maybe it was permission to let the past go. And the people living in it. 

"Does he know?" Brock asked, interrupting Steve's silent quest for closure. "Barnes?" he clarified. "Does he know about what happened with you and me?" 

Barnes. Bucky. Buck didn't know. Nat knew. 

"You didn't want anyone to know," Steve said, reminding himself more than Brock. He hadn't planned on telling her. Had never wanted to. But she was looking out for him. 

"It's for the best," Brock told him, though he, too, seemed to talk more to himself. 

_'i think i'm trying to make you happy.' _

"Because you took pity on me?" Steve asked. 

_'know that i'm failing.' _

"I was angry," Brock said immediately. 

_'my fault, not yours.' _

"I didn't mean it," he stressed again. "I was angry." 

"You're always angry," Steve told him. Had known it all along. Both of them did. 

"Look," Brock started, he didn't sound any calmer. Any friendlier. "I don't care that you won't be my boyfriend. I care that you think you're better than me for it when clearly you're just-," he broke off as if that would make a difference. 

"When clearly I'm what?" Steve pressed, fed up with his judgements. 

"When clearly you're just scared to be loved," Brock finished, "To settle down. To allow yourself some dignity," he dared to say. Always managing to make things worse. "That's what makes me angry."

It was almost comical, the sheer size of Brock's asshole behavior. Comically infuriating. Comically stupid. 

"What?" Brock asked, when Steve didn't say anything. 

"You really believe that out of the two of us, I'm the one thinking myself better?" Steve asked. 

Comically tragic. Comically painful still. 

"You can love me all you want, Brock," he went on. "It doesn't scare me." It didn't. Not anymore. "In fact, I'm willing to take every last bit and all of it," he offered, reaching a new level of self-sacrifice. Comically stubborn. "What scares me is that you keep trying to punish me for it. I'm tired of taking all that punishment that comes with your love."

He wasn't just tired of it. He felt wounded by it. Permanently damaged by it. 

"Don't you think I know that?" Brock asked, still angry, but angry with himself. The kind of anger Steve thought forgivable. "I told you I do," Brock went on, starting to pace with his frustration. "I told you I know it's all me. All my baggage and all my issues. But knowing doesn't change anything, don't you get it? Realizing it doesn't change anything. You have to change too." 

"Me?" Steve echoed, because he still hadn't learned to just walk the fuck away. 

"Yes, you," Brock doubled down. "You have to stop fighting me on every end," he told Steve. "I'm not asking you to love me back, but you've got to start making an effort."

"I stayed," Steve just said. "Stayed the fucking night because it was important to you. I've kept this quiet because it was important to you. I've stopped fucking other people because it was important to you. I've let you push me past every sane limit because for some fucked up reason that's important to you too. What more do you want?" he asked, knowing he sounded all kinds of angry too. But he wasn't. He was lost, simple as that. 

And he wasn't the only one. 

Brock sat down on the floor against the hallway wall, his eyes asking that same question. "You've got to admit-," he began, but ran out of blame even before he'd finished the sentence. "You've got to take that shame off me," he said finally, tears in his eyes. 

"I can't do that," Steve said. Maybe he wished he could. Could undo years of self-hatred. Self-abuse. But he couldn't. "No one can do that," he reminded both of them. "Only you can do that. By yourself," he finished, self-preservation waking up at last. 

Nat would be proud. 

"Don't do this," Brock asked of him. "I don't want us to be a cliché," he added, his face still as miserable as his words. "I don't want us to call it quits in the middle of a night with nowhere to go. I don't want it. I don't want to not see you anymore," he stressed. "I don't want this break. This heartbreak. I don't want this to end. Not for now, not for good. I don't want to one day have to tell someone about how we got back together. I want this start to finish. With nothing to skip or fast forward to in between." 

Jesus Fucking Christ, Steve thought. But his body was less appalled than his mind. Moved instead to sit down beside Brock on the carpet. Experiencing a strange sensation of belonging when all he had been supposed to do was leave instead. 

"I thought you didn't want to tell people at all," he said, leaning so deep into this feeling that any self-help counselor would be proud. 

Brock did the opposite, hiding behind knees, shoulder and arms. Unable to look at Steve when he began to speak. 

"I already have," he confessed. As if Steve cared. As if this had ever been about Steve. "Jack knows. My friend Sharon knows. And I'll tell Barnes right away if that's what it takes to convince you," he finished and Steve finally realized this wasn't about him. This was Brock tackling his shame the only way he knew how to. By screaming angrily in its face. 

"Maybe not right now," Steve said gently. Thinking of Buck on his bed. Keeping all his secrets for as long as he could. Not so different from Brock. 

When Steve turned his head to look at him, Brock had already gathered enough courage to come out of hiding and meet Steve's eyes instead. 

"I'll figure out how to get my head right, how to let go of that shame," he assured Steve. "I swear I'll get it out of the way."

If only it was the only thing in the way. The only thing to let go of, get rid of. 

"Come on," Brock started again, a tender look on his face. "You wouldn't have made it this far with me if you couldn't stand the idea of you and me." 

The idea of you and me. No, he didn't hate it. The opposite was true. It almost made Steve smile. 

"Maybe I took pity on you," he suggested. Deflecting. Meanwhile allowing the idea to play out in his head. You and me. Putting all else to the side. The idea was almost as tempting now as it was that first night. 

"I'm sure you did, but I didn't deserve it." Brock said, his tone so soft it was hard to believe he could ever be as angry as he'd just been ten minutes ago. 

Steve couldn't take his eyes off Brock, let him hold his gaze much longer than he should have. A look so broken it cut through skin and flesh, the idea of you and me bleeding into the exposed wound. 

"Maybe not."

"But you're still willing to try," Brock said carefully. "You are willing to try, right?" he asked. "Or did I get that wrong?" 

_'You still want to anyway? Knowing we suck at it?_' 

"I like things easy," Steve started, almost wistfully remembering who he was. Used to be. Who he liked being. 

"This isn't easy though," Brock argued quietly. Maybe not aiming to interrupt him. Just trying to keep up. 

And Steve couldn't blame him. Everything was a fucking mess between them. 

"I only like things messy in bed," Steve went on, remembering more parts of himself. 

"This is very messy," Brock agreed, just as quietly. Just walking the path with him. 

"A lot of people have told me that it sucks to love me. That it hurts to love me," Steve said, the words harder to get out than he'd thought. "That falling in love with me is the worst thing that ever happened to them."

"It does suck and it does hurt," Brock said, smiling so intimately, Steve couldn't tell if at him or to himself. "But it's hardly the worst," he added. 

"I don't know what it feels like," Steve admitted. Not for the first time, though it felt like it. Like this time it was more than a fact. More than an impossibility. Like this was a beginning. "I don't know if it's really as big of a deal as anyone says." 

"Maybe it has been blown a little out of proportion. And commercialized, too," Brock offered, quietly supportive. "Especially weddings. And maybe Valentine's Day."

"You make me feel a whole lot of things at once," Steve told him, because he had to see through what he'd begun. "Not all of them good. Some of them though. Some of them really fucking good actually." 

And it felt really fucking good to admit to it. 

"Always aiming to please," Brock said with a smile, still too quiet to be meant as an interruption. 

"I like easy, but life isn't easy," Steve continued his earlier thought. Letting go of his own past. His own past self. "I know you think I don't know that, but I do. And I know we've talked about this being a break from our lives, a pause, a distraction, whatever we called it." 

He stared at Brock as if another look could save him from the grief of it all. 

"It's not though, it isn't a break from anything," he went on then, feeling raw and taken apart. "It's anger and frustration, and arguments. It's pity and spite and prejudice. And hate sometimes. It's sex that you couldn't ever show on TV or print on paper. It's uncomfortable and off-putting. With a heavy taste. It's obnoxious and ridiculous. And too goddamn angsty for two people well over thirty-five." 

He felt stupid letting it all spill out, but it was freeing at the same time. 

"I think I like this more than easy," he admitted finally. Surrendered to it. Almost happily so. Somewhat content at least. "I like it because it hurts, and because sometimes I want to hurt. Because it's annoying and frustrating, and because sometimes I want to be angry too. Angry like you. And because sometimes I get tired of all the smiles at work and I am desperate for hate," he told Brock. The honesty was painfully overwhelming. "Desperate to be around someone I hate, but someone I can trust. Someone who hates me right back, yet trusts me all the same. Someone who doesn't think me not developing romantic feelings is a character defect. Who doesn't think it's the worst thing about me. Or the only defining thing about me. Someone who doesn't think me not developing romantic feelings means that I don't feel anything at all." 

The opposite was true. There was so much he was capable of feeling, feeling it all in that moment. 

"Someone who fucks me through it instead," he said, exhausted from his own goddamn words that wouldn't stop coming. Wouldn't stop tearing him open. "Fucks me through all those shitty emotions no one likes to see or hear about. Fucks them right out of me or deeper into me, I don't care."

He took a deep breath after, not knowing what to do with all of it. Feeling embarrassed for dumping it all onto Brock, onto himself. Onto the world. 

Suddenly, he was hyper-aware of their surroundings, the surreality of it. The ungodly hour and the abandoned liminal space. The impersonal silence all around and the tender stillness between them. Their intimacy so much more than a negotiation. Than a bargaining. A neverending impasse of characters. Differently wired. Incompatible. And their bodies resisting to comply. 

"I can be that," Brock said, laying down more proof that he was just as stubborn as Steve. Willing to walk their battlefield of emotions. Start to finish. Refusing to learn. 

"That's good," Steve told him, because he was just as stupid. And just as willing. "Because I was talking about you." 

There wasn't much room in this moment for touch, but Steve's body was aching for it. Screaming for it. And when Steve allowed his elbow to press against Brock's knee for a second, he felt the echo of Brock's touch everywhere on his skin. The echo of the lust, of the stretch, of the pressure. The ghost of Brock's tongue. 

"I think you appreciating me hating you has actually made me despise you a little less," Brock said, chasing it away. "And made me love you a little more." 

Steve kept his eyes on Brock, his body relaxing into the moment. There was nothing scary about it. 

_'I wish it wouldn't matter.' _

_'It doesn't.'_

"Just a little?" he asked. Not to tease, but to flirt. 

"Marginally," Brock told him, just as focused on Steve as Steve was on him. "You wouldn't notice if I fucked you right now." 

"Yeah, I bet," Steve said, trying another breath. "There's gotta be plenty left to draw from," he added, not dwelling on the missing weight on his chest. 

Not that he had much of a chance. 

"I think I was paid to do something illegal tonight," Brock started, but he didn't sound worried about it. Nervous about it. "I think I either delivered a bribe or participated in blackmailing," he added, simply acknowledging another fucked up truth. Just one more on top of all the other. "I think we're all involved in some sketchy shit. You, me. Rollins and Barnes." 

Another complication. 

Water under the bridge of chaos. 

"But you don't know for sure," Steve tried. He simply couldn't deal with anything else today. Tonight. 

"No," Brock agreed. "I don't know for sure." 

Maybe naivety was their only crime.

"Then it's all going to be alright," Steve assured him. Anything else seemed unacceptable. They had to be alright. All of them. "We did our jobs, that's all," he added, though technically those weren't even their jobs. Their real jobs. The regular ones. A technicality he chose to ignore. Because this was still Bucky's real job. 

"What time is it?" Brock asked after a little while, the world catching up with them. 

Steve pushed his leg out to get to the pocket of his jeans when he remembered. "My phone's in my room," he told Brock, knowing that leaving it behind hadn't been smart. Though the chances were low there was still a possibility that Nat would follow up on her text and that Bucky would catch the preview of her message if he was awake. 

"Almost four," Brock said, his own phone in his hand, flashing Steve the screen so casually. "I should get back," he added, slid it back into his pocket. Unaware of what had happened. 

Unaware that it hadn't just been the time showing on his phone, big bright numbers over a veiled gray unlocked screen. But an undismissed notification from a missed call over an hour ago. Steve's call. But that hadn't been the name on the display. 

It had almost read that name. If it hadn't been for one additional letter. 

Steven. 

Before he knew it, before he'd made a conscious decision, Steve wrangled his body back up on its feet. Taken aback for no reason. Caught off guard for no reason. His instincts shortcutting. Acting without precedence. 

This hadn't happened without his knowledge, without his consent either. It had happened per Steve's offer. His request even. 

His body slowed down while his mind tried to figure out if it was okay with this. Every muscle exhausting itself to buy time. To stop time. 

It was his own goddamn name. And there was no reason to have an emotional meltdown over it. 

But no one called him that anymore. 

"Did I tell you you look good already?" Brock asked, watching Steve from his spot on the floor with a smile. Flirting. Unaware. But stalling all the same. 

Wanting Steve.

Start to finish. 

_'That's how much I want you, okay?'_

The sound of them laughing echoing from memory. 

It was okay. 

He was okay. 

They were. 

"Too good to pass on?" Steve wondered, stretching out an arm as an offer to help Brock up. 

He wasn't quite prepared for the effect it would have on him. Their hands slotting together, the skin of Brock's palm hot against Steve's, his fingers pressed against the back of his hand, touching something more on the inside. 

It was no secret that Steve wasn't one for casual hand holding, couldn't overlook its meaning. Its significance. 

But here, tonight, out of place and out of time, with the strength of Brock's arm traveling up Steve's wrist and elbow as they pulled towards each other, for the first time in his life, Steve didn't want to let go. Wanted to keep borrowing from Brock's strength. From the decisive force of his grip. From the protective nature of hardened knuckles and calloused skin. 

It was as if no one had ever tried to hold Steve's hand before. As if it was an undiscovered part of him, suddenly shockingly intimate, and he had no idea what to do with it. With his hand and the nakedness of his hand. Almost embarrassingly naked. He didn't know how to use it, his fingers staggering around Brock's hand, aborted, helpless movements. He didn't know how to hold a hand back. 

It was as if no one had ever even tried to reach for his. Though they had. Though Brock had. Unwilling to let go of it in the shower. 

He was more willing now, his fingers leaving warmth behind, prints, particles, DNA. Leaving behind touch-starving patches of skin, Steve's body shaky with thirst for more. 

"Always," Brock told him. He was so close now that Steve's chest burned up with impatience. With desire. "So when are you going to fuck me through my own set of ugly feelings," Brock wondered, drenching himself in gasoline. 

Of course, Steve wanted to. He hadn't brought it up so often in the first place if he didn't want to. If he didn't want to know what it was like, pushing inside Brock, feeling his heat and the way his body adjusted. Working him open. Letting him learn about himself. Letting his body teach him. 

As with Nat, saying no wasn't at all about not wanting to. 

"When I'm convinced you won't have a fucking panic attack in between," he said gently. With Brock it wasn't an entirely unfounded concern. 

"Just fuck that panicking shame right out of me," Brock told him. Determined still to face his shit head on.   
  
"I don't think that's a good idea," Steve said, carefully making Brock meet his gaze with a finger beneath his jaw. 

It still didn't mean that he wanted it any less. That he didn't like the thought of doing just that. Or trying at least. That he didn't feel the offer on his tongue and down his spine, deep in his stomach and simmering down to his lap. 

"Whoever said you were easy," Brock started, their eyes still locked. "They had no fucking clue, did they?" 

"You have to meet me halfway too, you know?" Steve reminded him, allowing himself to smile over Brock's remark. 

"You know that I was insanely proud of what we have just today?" Brock asked, leaning into Steve with his whole body. "Earlier when I saw you on the plane. Head high and chest swelling proud. It was actually pretty fucking romantic whether you can grasp that shit or not. No offense, though." 

"None taken," Steve said, distracted by Brock's hands all over his chest. Distracted by what it did to him. What it made him want even more now. 

He moved them back until they were up against the wall. Brock's breath against his throat, but Steve didn't care. Wanted more of it instead. On more parts of his body. 

He was hard and so was Brock and there was only one way this was going to end. 

"Starting to despise you again," Brock said, releasing some of the tension the only way they knew how to. 

"This isn't a good idea," Steve said quietly, worried he would get carried away again. Take things too far in public. Without proper guidance. Without Nat showing him how to. 

"Don't worry, you can't catch feelings through two layers of jeans," Brock said, pulling Steve from his fears and back into his body. 

"You're really starting to enjoy this, aren't you?" Steve wondered, pushing a foot between Brock's. His thigh between his legs, just how Nat had taught him. Just as calm, just as close. Their bodies, however, not yet finding a rhythm. Their hips moving against each other, either concerned with its pleasure first. 

"Dating an aromantic asshole must be good for something, right?" Brock said. So casually. Steve didn't know where he'd learned that word from. It hadn't come up yet between them. What it meant had, but not the word. 

The sound of it safely tucked away in Steve's head. With the image of his name in Brock's contacts. 

It was okay. 

He was. 

They were. 

And something within Steve came apart with it. Something itching to come out, to find air between them. In them. In what they were. More than okay. 

"Tell me you love me," Steve said, rushed and forceful. Wanted to hear it. 

"I love you," Brock complied instantly. "I love you so fucking much I'm sick of it."

Shameless satisfaction washed over Steve, his ego, his pride swelling in sync with his cock, his hips jerking against Brock's. 

"I love you and I don't give a fuck about what you think of that," Brock continued. "I love you and I think it's funny that you don't." 

It wasn't funny. Steve knew. But his body still wasn't done with hearing it. Drinking it in. All of Brock's feelings. Without pressure to reciprocate. Without fear of retaliation. It felt so good, he almost felt ashamed of it. His face on Brock's shoulder. His breath all worked up from being told that Brock loved him. His head all fucked up with _the idea of me and you_. With _aromantic asshole_. With _Steven_. 

"Funny, because it doesn't matter," Brock clarified. 

No, it didn't matter. But it wasn't funny still. 

"Funny," Brock started again, "because you let me fuck you like all the others, thinking I was just the next in line. But now you want me just as much as I want you," he told Steve. 

And the irony was, indeed, beginning to be funny. Was beginning to feel right. Here, between them. As Steve was busy orchestrating the friction of their jeans, riding it closer and closer to the edge. 

"Now you want me as much as I'm scared to let you," Brock said, and Steve was determined to let him. Let him have his things again, just as Steve got his own. Let him say what needed to be said. Confessed. In this painfully sacred moment. "As much as I'm scared to have you. And scared to lose you." 

"Brock," Steve cut in, tongue heavy and out of breath. He knew he was going to push it, but he didn't care. "Ask me for it." 

He knew Brock needed it bad, his body moving against Steve impatiently. Receptive to every touch. Leaning into it, into Steve, handing himself over. Steve's body a barrier between him and the world. Steve's hands, his hips, the weight of his body against him, against his cock, the only world he needed. 

"Don't make me walk back into that room with that tent in my pants," Brock said, lips pressed against the shell of Steve's ear. 

"Why not?" Steve asked, breathing in his scent. Pretending they were at Brock's instead. Wrapped up into each other all the same. Just as eager, as cruel with each other. As open and honest and raw. Pretending there were no lies left between them. 

"Because I wouldn't be able to sleep," Brock told him. "Because I'd be thinking about you all night. In fucking pain from the hard-on you're giving me and with no opportunity to get rid of it." 

"You could ask Rollins to help you out," Steve suggested. Not because he thought Brock would. Not because he thought the image would help them along. Because it was a fucked up habit. Because he had to tear it all to pieces. The idea that they were exclusive. When they were. When they had been basically the entire time. 

It was his fucked up habit of inserting himself into other relationships. 

"No," Brock told him immediately. "It has to be you, okay? I want it from you. I want you to get me off. Get me off now." 

It was what Steve wanted to hear. Different words for the same thing. A different 'I_ love you_'. A different _'I love you even if you don't love me back_'. A different _'I love you and I'm not asking you to love me back_'. Just asking you to go get me off. 

And Steve wanted to. Wanted to make it good considering the circumstances. Wanted it to be good, to be hot. Be careful all the same. Wanted to have Brock, but for Brock to be held. 

All those things he'd wanted. 

And then failed to do. 

Pushing up against Brock with desperation more than consideration. Working his cock through his jeans with frustration instead of care. Losing track of any sexual generosity, substituting all of it with selfish desire instead. He wanted Brock, his body wanted Brock, wanting to feel all of him without delay. Wanting to feel him come without delay. Get off without delay. 

Steve had wanted it fast, but was still surprised when it happened, when Brock came without much warning. All the tells of his body off somehow. Or Steve losing the ability to read them. Or had never known them at all. 

Exhausted and overworked, Brock struggled to keep himself up, arms wrapped around Steve yet pulling away from his touch. Then pushing into it again. Demanding attention and recoiling from it. Steve's hands shaking where he held Brock. Between ribs and shoulder blades. His wrist just under his armpits. Forgotten space. But he could feel the rough beat of Brock's heart from there, the effort, the ecstasy. 

He was warm all over, and very likely sore. From Steve shoving and thrusting, trusting he could take it. Like Steve could. Like Steve always did. Had always done. Trusting he would like it. Wanted it just as much. Wanted it like that. 

"Don't you dare stop," Brock told him, catching his breath in between. Steve's doubts written in physical hesitancy. "I'm not done until you've finished," Brock assured him. 

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, choosing to believe him. Then allowed his body to go after its own release. To use Brock's body for friction, for stimulation. For pleasure. 

Buried his head in Brock's neck, tip of his nose grazing over sweat-soaked hairs. His breaths just as wet, his mouth unable to keep any of it in. Kisses and noises alike. He forced them all into Brock's skin, silencing himself with swollen and angry lips against the collar of Brock's shirt. 

He felt it building at his core, the stress of the urgency. Every muscle in his body contracting, fighting, pushing, craning and grasping for something just out of reach. Almost within, almost. 

He shot his load with painful relief, hard and messy, the aftershocks fading into a black out. 

_'Someone stood you up?' _

_'Something like that.' _

The hollow sounds of his own pants in his ears, post-orgasm pulling him underwater. 

_'You really like it like that, don't you? Messy like that. And all over the place.' _

_'Don't you?_' 

Then there were Brock's hands in his hair, on his cheek, Brock's pulse beneath his lips, his tongue, in Steve's palms. And his scent up all Steve's nose, his mouth, his eyes. Everywhere inside. Corrupting him. 

Invading his chest like cold air. Sharp at first, then slowly anesthetizing. Paralyzing him from the inside out. 

Everything slowed, but Steve didn't feel like he calmed down, drawing in gasping breaths that were never enough, couldn't beat that suffocating feeling. Drawing in gasping breaths through unkissed lips. 

Steve wasn't the one for dumb rules, but he was still sometimes hesitant about post-sex kisses. About kisses that said goodnight or goodbye. Kisses that had nowhere to go, nowhere to lead. Kisses that weren't make-outs, that weren't hook ups. 

But although he was already spent, felt spent, spent and sick with sleep deprivation, he didn't feel like he was done yet. Done yet having parts of Brock, moving against Brock's body with his own, taking him in all ways possible. 

He didn't bother to open his eyes, his mouth finding Brock's on instinct, from experience. With parted lips Steve kissed him in the heat of their faces, so close, with sex still lingering between them. Cheeks burning, and sweat caught in the thinnest hairs, the curve of their brows and the stubble of their beards. Like summer more than November, and Brock tasted of salt and smelled of Steve. And sleep didn't feel like a necessity. 

It could have just as well been his own heart, beating through his shirt, but it was Brock, reminding him softly with his fingers, of the passing time, of where they were, of how they shouldn't be caught. 

He stepped out of Brock's space, somewhat dizzy, still coming down from his orgasm, the distance between them feeling unnecessarily wide. Unnecessarily new. Unnecessary. 

"Say it again," Steve asked. Wanted to hear it one more time, far from the heat of a fight or the heat of a fuck. Though they weren't too far. But wanted to hear it before dawn too. Before it would feel too real. Before the burden of the day would be hoisted on top of the words, mercilessly adding to their weight. 

"I love you," Brock told him, not a second of hesitation. Featherly light from his mouth. Coasting unscattered and untainted into Steve's ear. "Now you," Brock told him, but he was smiling in a way to let Steve know he was just teasing. 

And maybe he wouldn't care, when nothing was going to be said. 

Maybe he was going to laugh it off. 

Maybe he was going to throw another joke on top. 

But it wasn't funny. 

"Second night in a row," Steve just said, offering him the next best thing. A thing that felt right instead of an obligation. A thing that felt true instead of a lie. A thing that actually made him feel something instead of nothing at all.   
  
"Second night in a row," Brock echoed after a short moment of consideration. He understood. He agreed. Knew that it had meaning. "You look good, you know," he added then. Grinned. He looked happy and Steve liked seeing him happy. Had wanted to see him this happy the first night they had hooked up. "Has anyone told you today?" 

"Once or twice," Steve told him. He felt like smiling, but he didn't know if it showed. Or if he was just smiling to himself, his body too tired to express emotions coherently. To share them with Brock. 

"You should get some sleep," Brock said. And yeah. Probably. "You've got a fucking plane to pilot," he added.

"Co-pilot," Steve said automatically. And for the first time, he felt nothing doing so. It didn't make him angry, didn't make him bored. He didn't feel himself loathing it on the spot. It was okay. 

"Promise me you'll sleep?" Brock asked. It wasn't really something that could be promised, but Steve still wanted to. Wanted to, because of how Brock was one of the two people in Steve's life that had been concerned with his mental health and well-being those past weeks. And he didn't want to stack more worries on top of the others, be more trouble than he was worth lately. 

"Goodnight, Brock," Steve told him, determined to get at least a couple of hours in. Determined to leave everything else to the morning, to the next day, for sometime after the weekend. 

Though he could already tell, he wouldn't manage. And it hurt him to feel his smile fall the second he'd turned around, realizing it was just another lie. Another deception. An omission of genuine sentiment. 

And sleep didn't come easy after that. 

Not with Bucky right next to him and all of Steve's questions sitting on the nightstand between them. With change written all over the covers and seeping through the blinds.

He got his sheets pulled up to his chin and a hand splayed out on his stomach, breathing into his palm. 

"I love you," he whispered into the dark, testing out those words from his own mouth. 

Listening to himself. Into himself. Checking himself for any response, but came up empty. 

His body reacted more for any announcement he made during a flight. Any time he ordered a vodka tonic. Any time he called Nat by her full name. 

Natasha. 

Steven. 

It didn't matter. 

But it wasn't funny. 


	12. Chapter 12

It felt like just a second of sleep, maybe less so, between the moment his eyes had finally fallen shut, the moment his mind had finally calmed down, and waking to Bucky rummaging through his bag, asking Steve if he'd seen his charger, his socks, his fucking M&Ms at eight in the morning. 

Steve tried to take it all in, but gave up after half a minute, pulling the sheets up over his head and turning his back instead. 

He was still tired, his eyes felt sore and dry and they refused to stay open for longer than a second, but his brain refused to fall back into the nothingness of before, into the blackout, the pass-out, the knockout. 

He was awake whether he liked it or not, whether his body liked it or not. Both of them didn't. Every part of his body felt heavy, not quite under his control, and every thought felt muted and too far away to fully grasp. 

For more minutes he just lay there, the world around him just as surreal as his memory of last night. The things they had said more so than the things they'd done. There should definitely be a limit to personal things allowed to share in just one night. A limit on lies and truths in a week or a month. Steve felt like he'd been overspending on all of them, felt out of words and emotions alike. 

He could have laid there for hours more if it hadn't been for the various items that hit him in always shorter periods of time. 

A pillow first, then his own jeans, the empty M&Ms bag and finally a damp towel that Bucky tossed at him from the open bathroom door. 

"Gueth wha?" he asked, way too loud and with his toothbrush still in his mouth. 

Steve managed a grunt, with no clue and no spark of interest in what he could possibly be expected to guess. 

He heard Buck spitting, the rinse of water, the sound of a plastic cup tumbling into the sink and Bucky yelping at his mishap. 

"Clint is going to cook for us today," he said then. His voice was muffled by everything going on there in the background, but Steve still noticed that he sounded genuinely excited about it. "You, me, Nat and Sam." 

At that Steve stirred, tried to rid himself of the sheet but ended up tangled worse. The whole thing had cost him all of his energy and so he discarded the idea of actually participating in the conversation. He settled for another grunt instead, exhaustion numbing him almost blissfully. 

It was only forty minutes later,-- after Bucky had dragged the sheets off him, after Steve had managed to wash his face with blinking eyes and wet strands of hair sticking to his forehead all the way down to his brows, after he put on his jeans from last night first before noticing how gross that would probably be, after he'd tugged them off again, finding a clean pair of pants in his cabin bag and a fresh shirt that was neatly pressed, like all his shirts, but smelled only of industrial detergent and faintly of plastic wrapping, discrete and professional and impersonal--, it was only then that his brain was somewhat awake enough that it crashed right back into where it had clocked out earlier. 

"Did you say Clint was going to cook for us?" he asked at once, abandoning lacing his shoes and staring up at Buck instead. "What the hell?"

Bucky laughed at his face of utter confusion, and patted him on the head. "Yep," he just said. "It's a double date, but you're coming. That's non-negotiable." 

"So you and Sam are good?" Steve asked, his head not quite able to take more in at the moment. 

While he resumed tying his shoes, Bucky was silent for so long that Steve eventually checked if he was still there. 

"I don't know," Bucky said honestly. "I guess as good as it gets considering, you know, everything." 

Steve could tell he was trying to make light of the situation, but that it wasn't resolved yet at all. 

"I'm sure that's still better than most couples on their best days," Steve told him. In the past he would have held onto that almost religiously. But now, for the first time in five years, he got the distant but distinct feeling that he was going to be alright even if Sam and Bucky wouldn't. Not like that. As a couple. If they were going to break up. 

"It's strange that we want the same thing," Bucky went on, his hands in his pockets and with his head down. "We want to fly and we want to be together. And yet it seems impossible to get there." 

"Get a different job, Buck," Steve said then, blamed his bluntness on his sleep deprivation. "Working for Pierce isn't going to get you anywhere good," he told him, Brock's words still swirling around his head. "Get out while you still can. Apply for that job at the flight school that Sam's got his eyes on, go back to college, get into party planning, I don't care," he suggested, feeling defeated but emboldened at the same time. "Be Sam's housewife for a bit longer," he added, although he knew just how awful it sounded. "This-," he paused for a moment to stand up straight, "this and the army, those are bad ideas." 

They didn't talk much in the elevator nor during breakfast. They didn't talk in the car, kept things professional at the airport preparing their flight. They barely talked taxiing to the runway or during takeoff. 

Steve had struggled with a need for distraction. For something to do when he was supposed to do so little. 

"You're still coming, right?" Bucky asked hesitantly. Five minutes after they were finally en route, heading back to Chicago under the painfully bright midday sun. 

Steve fumbled with his sunglasses for a second, his mind utterly unable to focus on anything else than his job today. 

"I'm not letting Clint cook for me," he stated dispassionately. It wasn't because he didn't like him. 

For all Steve knew, Clint was a nice guy, possibly a little too distracted at times for Nat's liking, but other than that, treated her just fine. For all he knew, Clint's face had a tendency towards hard features and unfriendly shadows, but his voice had a tendency to be mellow and rich, and his sexuality had a tendency to be bi-curious. 

It was simply too tempting now. 

"Was it Nat's idea?" Steve wondered, suddenly suspicious of the entire set up. 

"This is the first time ever all four of us are inbound on the same day," Bucky argued, dodging the question. "How can we run into each other at arrivals and then not celebrate." 

"So it was your idea," Steve guessed. Because he'd run into Nat countless of times, with Sam in tow and without, or even the other way around in earlier years, and they had always headed home separately. He could probably count on one hand the times he'd gone home with Sam right away and it hadn't happened in years. Not since Bucky had been this stable and Sam had stopped worrying about what he was going to come home to. What he was going to see, would be forced to look at. 

He'd never gone straight home with Nat to fuck. They'd either had sex in the hotel anyway or had scheduled something for later. Steve's skills had never managed to beat the drain of the flight, of the little passenger interaction, combined with the prospect of home. Not with Nat. 

Only with Brock. Brock who he had picked up at arrivals. Who he had gone home with straight after work. Brock, who was on this very flight yet again. Who he was going to run into all the same. 

"I thought it'd be a good opportunity to get together afterwards," Bucky clarified. He'd put on a serious tone now, but his excitement from earlier still shone through. 

It pained Steve that he couldn't share that emotion with him. He wanted to. He wanted to feel the way he used to feel. Not three months ago, he would have been the one suggesting it. With Bucky cheering him on while he sold the idea to Nat. To Sam. The people who mattered most in his life. 

"And Nat agrees," Bucky added, more quietly but not any less happy. 

"That doesn't explain why Clint is cooking for us," Steve reminded him. 

"He likes to cook," Bucky just said. "Come on, it'll be fun." 

It didn't sound like fun. It sounded like torture. Still, Steve managed to find within himself the belief that this was what he needed. What he needed for Nat. What Bucky needed. Sam and Bucky. 

"Okay, what's the plan?" he asked, although he couldn't quite quench the part of him that didn't want to know. 

The plan was simple. Touch down at O'Hare, meet up with Nat and wait for Sam. Head over to Nat's place where Clint was making what Bucky called something between a late lunch and an early dinner. Have some wine and a good time. Overall what was supposed to be a perfect double date. A perfect double date and Steve. 

But it was what they needed. 

With a nervous eye on the weather, Steve tried to reign in all of his impulses. He refused to start another fight over things that didn't matter when there was still so much to fight about that did matter. 

"Don't worry, we'll be on the ground before all of that comes down," Bucky said, the thick rain clouds unable to overlook. 

"If they make us draw circles we might end up with a contaminated runway." It wasn't like Steve to be the one pointing out things that could go wrong. To be the one to worry. But he worried now that they wouldn't get permission to land right away. A slippery runway was almost as bad as heavy wind. Especially for an aircraft as small as this. And standing water was borderline catastrophic. 

"It'll be just fine," Bucky told him. "Don't forget that we're the one piloting this thing," he reminded Steve. 

"That's why we shouldn't be taking any chances," Steve said, determined to get this thing sorted right away. 

When he hailed flight control on his own accord, Bucky just shook his head, annoyed and used to land feistier jets in worse condition. But Steve couldn't help being reminded that Buck's primary job had never been to worry about making it back. Those were thoughts he was trained to cast aside once the engines came on. And simply getting a plane to touch down whole hadn't ever been Steve's job either. He had always been a commercial pilot. He was to get the plane down safely _and _gently, sparing stress to passengers and aircraft alike. Landings were what pilots were primarily judged on and it was ingrained into every fiber of Steve's being. 

So, while polite and charming, he was nothing but assertive about their time of arrival, about the impending rain and his refusal to let other flights take their slot. 

And although it wasn't really up to him, wasn't in his power to call the shots when they were the least important jet within all inbound traffic, luck was on his side after all, --luck or a friendly favor, or the silent authority of one specific passenger--, because they were told to descend upon approach. 

"You worry too much," Bucky said, his tone was teasing, but his words left a bitter taste even with Steve. 

"I'm doing my job," Steve just said, already tired of explaining himself. 

"A job you told me to quit just half an hour ago," Bucky reminded him. 

"It's not for everybody," Steve remarked, but he knew the damage it would do. 

"Is this what Sam has to put up with every damn day?" Bucky asked and just like that, they were apparently fighting again. "You're not the best pilot out there," he added. 

"I know," Steve told him. "That's why I've been trying to help Sam get seniority."

"How gracious," Bucky mocked. 

"Whatever," Steve muttered, suddenly failing to give one more fuck. 

Instead, a hideous thought had flared up in his mind, so unbelievably absurd that he knew he wouldn't be able to shake it until he had talked it over and over with himself. Convincing himself that there was nothing to it. From no angle and no side. Convincing himself that he was being ridiculous to even entertain it for one second, a day, and then pondering over it for two nights straight. But it was going to happen. He could already feel it, the seed being planted. 

"How much does the flight school pay?" Steve wondered out loud. Then pretended not to notice Bucky's wide-eyed glances as the question lingered between them, seemingly starting to slowly inflate until it took up all the space in the cockpit. 

* * *

He didn't run into Brock. Handing a private jet back wasn't as fast and easy work as it often was with commercial airplanes. Mostly because Bucky was expected to handle all post-flight maintenance and management himself and it took a while to get the jet to where it would remain safely parked, waiting for Pierce's next trip. By then all passengers were long gone and the heavy rain that had started right after their landing was fizzling out. 

However, Steve was reminded of Brock once he caught sight of Nat, his secret confession wordlessly mentioned in only one short look before he hugged her a little tighter than usual. 

Due to their delay, Sam was already with her, almost hiding behind her for reasons Steve could empathize with. The fact that he'd been flying without Steve's knowledge, the fact that Bucky had been flying without Sam's knowledge, the fact that all their arguments with their emotional manipulations were as raw as a day old wound. 

So Steve let Buck take the lead, watched him hovering in Sam's space for a second before Sam called him a lying asshole and proceeded to kiss him with his fingers all up in his hair. 

Steve looked away. Reflex mostly. He was too desensitized to their PDA to be repulsed. And too supportive to be annoyed. 

They took an L train to Nat's place and all Steve could do was to stare out the window and long for home while Bucky had his head on Sam's shoulder and Nat called Clint to warn him of their impending arrival. 

The once so familiar apartment had changed, only subtly so, but unsettling in ways Steve could neither understand nor put a finger on. 

The air was laced with traces of home cooked wonders, the floors looked polished and in the middle of the spacious living room a table was delicately set for five. 

Clint was busy in the kitchen, but he rushed past the counter as Nat let them in. He was wearing an apron with their airline's logo on as he greeted them, smiling with just that hint of a nervous blush. He kissed Nat on the cheek as he held up two greasy-looking hands, keeping them away from her body. 

"We make those?" Steve asked, turning to Sam in some inexplicable awe of the apron. 

Sam just shrugged, obviously as confused about this marketing strategy as Steve was. 

"Good to see you guys again," Clint told them, waving them further inside as he walked back to check whatever was sweating in the oven. "Have a seat, I'll be there in a second." 

Nat turned to look at them, eyebrows raised and her lips tight, surprised and impressed at once. Steve couldn't remember ever seeing her like that. 

"This smells delicious," Bucky said, dumping his bag on the sofa on his way towards the table. 

Steve excused himself to the bathroom, needing a moment to himself more than anything else. He took his time washing his hands, then made use of the privacy by checking his phone. 

There was a text from Brock waiting and although Steve had just been with him less than twelve hours ago, it filled him with unexpected nostalgia to see the name on his screen. The same kind he used to feel thinking about Nat and all their moments of intimacy. 

When he opened the message, he saw that Brock had sent a picture, too, of what looked like a bowl of cereal, a bottle of tonic water and a bottle of vodka with a half-filled glass in front of them, and two cheese strings on the side. 

From Brock 2:21PM   
is this suicide?

The text made Steve laugh to himself and he typed his reply without giving it much thought. 

To Brock 2:29PM  
No, it's good taste. 

To Brock 2:30PM  
Maybe a little ahead of its time…

The scent of sizzling herbs and spices reached him even in the bathroom, and despite the fact that Steve loved good food and against all common sense, he wished he was with Brock now. Wished he was on his way to that perfectly carefree high of a couple of drinks and then fuck Brock once he'd reached it, just like Brock kept asking him to. 

Steve was still looking at the photo when Brock replied immediately. 

From Brock 2:30PM  
Are you alone? 

For a moment, Steve contemplated lying because he was in the mood now to get something else going, something other than this late lunch slash early dinner. 

But then Brock clarified his text and Steve realized he had been jumping to conclusions. 

From Brock 2:31PM  
maybe we could talk? on the phone? 

It wasn't the ominous request for a talk that made Steve hesitate nor Brock's somewhat inconvenient wish to hear Steve's voice that made him hesitate, it was that he couldn't bring himself to allow another overlap between his friend's world and whatever he had going on with Brock on the side. Not right now. Not with Bucky and Sam just around the corner. Unaware, still, of his secret. 

To Brock 2:35PM  
With friends right now. I'll call you later. 

He locked his phone and slid it into a side pocket of his bag on his way back to the others, refusing to give Brock any chance to debate him. 

"Where do you wanna sit?" Clint asked suddenly behind Steve, sans apron but with two, hopefully clean, hands on his shoulders. 

There were only two seats left anyway, next to Nat at the head of the table and across from Buck or the empty chair next to it opposite of Sam. Either was going to force him to address unspoken issues, but given that Brock was still on his mind, Steve picked the lesser evil and left the spot next to Nat to Clint. 

Sam smiled at him and Steve mirrored him, but it didn't lessen the tension. 

"Nobody's driving right?" Clint asked, an opened bottle of red wine in his hand. 

The rest of them exchanged looks that seemed eager to manifest Clint's role as the outsider, as the new guy at best. None of them had owned a car in years. 

It didn't sit quite right with Steve although on any other day he would have, without a doubt, participated in it. 

"No one's driving," he replied to Clint instead, tilting his head and turning his shoulders so he could smile at him, too, as he stood next to Steve's chair. 

"Perfect," Clint said, placed a hand again on Steve's back as he leaned in a little to fill his glass. "Hope no one's flying either," he added. Much more quietly. Almost just for Steve's ear. 

"Definitely not," Steve told him. Just as quiet. And Clint squeezed his shoulder in return. 

Steve couldn't deny that the touch felt good, that it tested his resolve although it didn't make him doubt it. To Steve's own surprise, it made him feel a little guilty even, for the phone he had banned to his bag, the conversation he had cut off so abruptly. If last night was anything to go by, then Brock would rather have everyone knowing about their hook-ups than have Steve enjoy someone else's touch. 

And yet here he was, doing exactly that. And keeping the rest a secret. Somehow for his own benefit now. 

They toasted to their first official post-flight hangout and Steve couldn't help but feel the exclusion on Clint's behalf. Couldn't help seeing Brock in his place, and the memory of him at Sam's birthday. Alone and off to the side after being stood up. 

Clint didn't seem to mind, he was leaning over to Nat now, brushing his lips over her temple before taking a sip from his wine. 

The food was perfect and while Bucky enthusiastically shared more stories about his flights for Pierce, now that he felt finally free to talk about it, Steve began to silently wonder again, if maybe he wasn't the one cut out for the job after all. If jet lag and his unnecessary selfishness in the cockpit, his inability to share it, were just symptoms showing while he kept ignoring the root of the problem. 

He was off with his own thoughts when he felt Clint's hand on him again, this time, just above Steve's elbow, warm and steady and somehow tight enough to make itself known with an anchoring presence. 

When Steve turned to face him, the others were still talking and he realized that his input wasn't needed in the conversation. That it was just Clint checking in. Letting Steve know that he had been noticing his distance, his absence. Bringing him back without calling attention to it. 

It was a nice gesture, but Steve noticed at once that it was too nice. 

He tried to make eye contact with Nat, but she was preoccupied with selling Bucky all the benefits of flying cargo although Bucky insisted that if airlines didn't trust him with people, the rules of capitalism would prevent them from trusting him with goods. 

Sam was suspiciously quiet, which led Steve to believe that he was still processing all that he'd learned last night about Bucky's secret job. There was a chance he was still angry too, but wanted to keep it to himself in order to minimize any risk that he would end up pushing Buck towards a decision both of them would regret. 

Steve knew very little about love, but he knew a fair share about relationships and this didn't seem right. 

"Did you get some good hours in?" Steve asked Sam to distract him. And to signal to him that he wasn't holding Sam's professional choices and aspirations against him. Not anymore. 

Sam looked surprised for a second, then nodded. "Round trip to San Francisco," he told Steve. 

There was no way to address any deeper issues, not here, not with everyone else around. Besides, Steve didn't even know if he wanted to address anything else. In the end, he had been responsible for his decisions, he had been responsible for his bids. And he had been responsible for thinking his life was ultimately and irreversibly linked to the ones at this table. And that they would share this perception. 

"San Francisco sounds nice," Clint chimed in and Steve was grateful that the conversation wasn't just between him and Sam anymore. "Bet the weather was nice." 

"Sixty-five and a clear blue sky," Sam told him with a grin and Clint slapped his palm on the table. 

"Unfair," he remarked. "We've been out on the ramp all week loading and unloading in non-stop rain," he added. "I'm getting sick of it, to be honest. It's time for snow already." 

"You know what? I agree," Steve said. He didn't know why, but he suddenly felt ready for winter. For the year to be over. Most pilots didn't care for snow if it weren't for the hassles of delays and cancellations that so often accompanied it. 

Clint seemed to enjoy the support, smiling at Steve nudging his knee against him. It was only now that Steve noticed the way Clint had draped his arm over the back of his chair, the two of them sitting way too close. 

Once more Steve tried to get Nat to meet his eyes with very little success. She took his wordless plea for help as an invitation to pass down the bottle of wine while she ordered Clint to refill his plate. 

While Nat was busy being disappointedly oblivious, Steve caught Bucky noticing the arm, the proximity, the way Clint brushed his fingers against the back of Steve's hand as he placed the restocked plate in front of him. 

And Steve could immediately tell that Bucky understood what Nat didn't. His reaction though, Steve couldn't have predicted in a million years. 

First, he leaned back. Then mirrored Clint with an arm around Sam's chair. Then he took several long breaths, keeping his eyes mostly on what was happening across from him, but glanced at Nat every once in a while because he wasn't stupid. 

He knew this wouldn't happen if she wasn't fine with it and if she was fine with it, he knew it was going to happen. Because when had Steve ever said _no _to Nat in the past. 

Bucky's quick grasp on the situation left Steve wondering about Sam. Whether he was as aware of it as his boyfriend. Whether he, too, was realizing that the thing he had warned Steve not to pursue, the thing he would disapprove of, was right around the corner. 

"Careful with that," Bucky said when Steve lifted the glass full of gently swaying wine to his lips. 

He wasn't talking about the wine. 

And judging by the look on Sam's face, it was then that he, too, realized that Bucky wasn't talking about the wine. He didn't look happy about it. 

"It's just wine," Steve said immediately out of spite. "My booze, my business," he added, to make clear where he stood. 

"Speaking of booze," Clint cut in, "there's tiramisu for dessert." If he'd done it out of naivety or because he agreed with Steve on the hidden matter at hand, Steve couldn't tell. But he was thankful anyway for the distraction. 

Although Sam and Bucky seemed to be losing their appetite, Nat cheered at the mention and began clearing the table. 

"I guess this wasn't my idea after all," Bucky remarked with both Nat and Clint out of earshot. 

"You wanted me to be here," Steve just reminded him. "You said it was non-negotiable." 

Bucky thought about it for two seconds and sat up a little straighter after two more had passed. "Why don't you stay at our place tonight?" he asked suddenly. His tone had softened. With one hand he reached for Sam's, folded in his lap, as if to symbolize some kind of unity in the offer. 

Initially, Sam looked irritated but his expression changed within a heartbeat. Then he smiled at Steve again. 

"Yes," he said. "Why not?" 

There were plenty of reasons and Steve could tell that Sam had his own on top of those too. It didn't seem possible that they had managed to address and resolve everything last night over the phone, and so Steve figured some things still needed to be discussed in private. 

"There you go," interrupted a voice behind Steve, saving him from answering. It was Clint who sat down another, a smaller plate in front of Steve. The layers of coffee soaked sponge cake and creamy topping looked inviting enough that Steve reached for his spoon although he was definitely full after he had accidentally prompted that second plate before. 

Clint's hand was back on Steve, not on his shoulder this time, but the nape of his neck, the collar preventing any skin contact. Not that it mattered. The warmth was still there, radiating off Clint's palm, the satisfying weight of its presence, confident and secure once more, unabashed and sensual the stroke of his thumb, the firm pressure of his fingertips. 

Under the table, Bucky stretched his legs out, bracketing Steve's right foot and crossing his ankles behind it. 

The only way to tell it was Bucky, and not Sam, was by the way Buck had to slightly tilt on his chair to make the distance. 

"Thanks," Steve said to Clint, stoically keeping eye contact with only the dessert in front of him. 

"How about more wine?" Nat offered a second bottle already uncorked at hand. 

"No," Steve said quietly at the same time that Sam told her, "yes," louder but not necessarily more excited. 

When Clint sat down he accidentally but inevitably kicked Bucky's shin. 

"Sorry," he said, eyeing up the situation over the table. 

"No problem," Bucky told him with a grin. He still refused to retract into his own space. 

Not quite sure about what it meant, Clint glanced over to Nat, and so did Steve, channeling all his desperation into a look. 

Nat returned their looks in confusion, question marks written all over her face. 

"So, Steve," Clint started, forcing all awkwardness aside. "Nat tells me you're from New York?" 

"Yes," Bucky answered for him. "Both of us actually." 

Clint nodded, obviously trying to be polite although he clearly hadn't expected a reply from the other side of the table. 

Steve didn't know what possessed Bucky to act like some jealous lover that was eager to mark his territory. He couldn't guess the issue that prompted him to interfere.

Weeks, months and eventually a full year had passed since their drunken night together. And although Steve's interest had never flattened or faltered, neither Bucky nor Sam had ever made another move towards a second try. In any case, it always seemed as if they had been avoiding potentially tempting circumstances. 

Until just twenty-four hours ago when Bucky had, for the first time, alluded that he was open to repeat the entire thing. 

And now he couldn't stop rivaling Clint for his tentative attempts to get Steve's attention. 

It didn't make any sense. Steve had had sex with other people since that night. And Bucky had known, had always acknowledged it without objections. 

Until Brock. 

"Brooklyn," Steve clarified out of reflex. He could tell though by the look on Clint's face that it was all the same to him. 

Carefully, Steve tried to get his foot out from Bucky's lock, but ended up knocking his knee against Clint's in the process, which Clint misinterpreted as an invitation to place his hand on Steve's leg rather than somewhere above the table. 

Once he felt the fingers on his lower thigh, Steve closed his eyes in resignation, not knowing what was wrong with this day or his friends. 

"I have to admit, I've never been," Clint told him, but the way he said it, Steve realized this wasn't at all about the city. 

Up at the head of the table, some flip was finally switched and Nat's eyes widened in realization as she finally caught on what was happening. 

Clint hadn't gotten the memo that the threesome was off. 

She looked at him, subtly shaking her head. 

"Steve's the perfect guide," Bucky cut in before Clint had a chance to get her message. "He takes good care of everyone involved." 

Opposite of Steve, Sam blushed and looked down, somehow the first confirmation that he had in fact gotten some enjoyment out of their night together. 

"Then it's time someone takes care of him, no?" Clint replied with confidence. He accentuated his attention with sliding his hand up higher. It seemed he didn't think of Buck and Sam as substantial competition. 

Nat had her face buried behind her hands and Steve couldn't tell if she was embarrassed or whether she was laughing. 

"We just offered to take him home later, so I think he's taken care of well," Bucky said in a bitingly sweet tone. 

"Have you heard our offer?" Clint asked, leaning back in a self-congratulatory way. It made Steve wonder about the details he and Nat had probably agreed on. Details that Nat hadn't had a chance to tell him yet. Details that flashed in Steve's head as fantasies, his dick stirring. And unfortunately within Clint's perception, supporting his unspoken claim on the upper hand. Quite literally. 

Steve tried to ask Nat for help, but she was hiding behind her glass now, cheeks flushed and eyes teary which told him that she was still suppressing laughter as she let him sweat. The back and forth between Clint and Bucky seemed too entertaining to end it prematurely. 

"It's always the same," Bucky just said with a dismissive smile. "Trust me, he's seen it all."

At that, Steve felt his mood drop and he kept his eyes on his plate. It wasn't a good look for him, not if he was ever going to get another chance at this. If Clint was new to this, he'd feel just as much anxiety as excitement. And knowing he was the only one without the experience could get him stuck in anxious thoughts rather than letting them go. The fear of disappointing, not just one person but two. The fear of causing boredom. 

Suddenly, Clint was all up in his space, his hand still on Steve's thigh, he leaned in close enough that Steve flinched at the breath against his ear. 

"Did Nat tell you about the piercings?" Clint asked, voice lower than a whisper. 

Steve's eyes shot up, catching a skeptical looking Sam at the other side, before he glanced over to Buck who got his arms crossed over his chest by now. 

Piercings. Plural. 

With that he turned to Nat, wondering painfully what other details of the offer he never received. 

"Nat's thinking of getting one too," Clint added just before Steve's fork clattered loudly onto the floor and Steve was on his feet. 

Everyone with semi-functioning eyesight could make out his straining erection at once, which applied at least to all the pilots at the table. 

Steve shook off his hands as he turned, refusing to touch any part of himself. He walked off headlessly, kept walking, until he crossed into the bathroom, until he walked straight into the shower, cold water splattering and gushing all over him. His fingers were shaking when they slipped off the mixer tap and he sank to the floor, resigning to just sit in his misery for a while. 

He sat there for a minute or two before someone gently knocked against the open door and then stepped in.

"I hate all of you," he said without looking up. Watched Nat's socks soak up some of the water that had spilled onto the tiles. 

"You're being a bit dramatic just now," she told him and was probably right. 

"I'm not used to this," Steve admitted.

"Being courted by four people at once?" Nat asked. 

"Saying no to them," Steve corrected, then looked up at her. "Four people, huh?" 

"Technically," she added with a smirk. 

Steve liked the idea of being courted by her. It had been a long time since she had last come onto him. 

"I haven't really had a chance to talk to Clint about it yet," she said quietly. "Tell him it wasn't going to happen."

"I figured," Steve remarked, his body shaking from the cold water. 

"I kind of forgot," she confessed with a guilty expression as she made herself just a little bit smaller. 

"And then you enjoyed the show too much?" he asked. 

"And then I enjoyed the show too much," she agreed with him and Steve just nodded. 

He wasn't mad. He couldn't be. Not with Nat. Not for her honesty. Not for keeping to herself what he didn't even know how to bring up himself. 

"Come on, let's get you dried off," she said, her tone warmer and gentler than most days. It worried Steve because he feared this was somehow a first sign of pity. 

She retrieved a fresh towel from the cupboard beneath the sink and tossed it at him. 

"You can just hang your clothes here and I'll have them washed one of these days," she told him, standing up straight and looking down at him.

"Do you think we should start doing more of our own laundry?" Steve asked, though he already knew the answer. 

"I can get you a plastic bag for them to take home," she offered with a shrug. Body and face letting him know that she didn't care either way. 

"I'm sorry," Steve said finally. He instantly felt better getting it off his chest although he hadn't noticed his desire to apologize all this time. 

Nat just considered him for a moment, then shook her head. "You have some clean clothes in there?" she asked instead. With a small nod she threw Steve's gaze past the bathroom door, halfway open, where his bag sat lonesome in the hallway. He shook his head, hoping she wouldn't ask him why. Though he knew she wouldn't judge him, he didn't want to explain just how he ended up dry-humping Brock Rumlow at three in the morning on a random hotel floor. 

She didn't ask though, stood up wordlessly and was gone for half a minute before she returned with some clothes at hand. 

"Those are yours anyway," she said and tossed him a pair of jeans. 

Steve had to look at them for a long moment before even recognizing them. They were undoubtedly his. One of his favorite pairs even. Worn out at the seams but soft on the inside, torn at the heels and ripped on the knee from how often he'd worn them. But the last time he'd seen them was probably a year ago. "Do I wanna know how they ended up here?" he asked, knowing the memory would only worsen his current state. 

Nat just glanced at the jeans for a moment then back at Steve's face with a look that said, '_How the hell should I know? They're your pants'_. And Steve knew right away that it was all the answer he would get, so he just nodded and put them aside to get dried off. 

"This is Clint's but it's come straight from the dry cleaners," she told him pointing at a neatly folded sweater. One more thing Nat didn't bother washing herself. He wouldn't have either. "And these are mine," she told him, tossing him a pair of balled up socks. "Biggest I got." 

Being a pilot Steve should probably have had the reflexes to catch them. But instead he reached for empty air and they bounced off his chest, falling on the floor where they rolled back to where they came from. Both of them watched until the ball of fabric came to a halt at Nat's feet. Then Nat looked up to judge him with just one look. 

"Just stop throwing things at me," Steve told her, but shook his head over his own defensiveness immediately after. As he looked at her, he realized it had all been for nothing. In no way was Nat, an active pilot, going to get a piercing anywhere on her body that might set off the alarm in some old school scanner. 

It was just his wishful thinking. His and Clint's. 

"Thank you," he told her dutifully instead. But he meant it too. Nat lingered for a second, and although it was a much needed gentle stroke of his ego, one that made Steve smile, he opened the door a little wider for her. 

"Nothing I haven't seen before," she remarked, but was already making her way back to the others. "A thousand times by the way," she called back over her shoulder. 

And yes, she was probably right. He had never been particularly modest before, but he just wasn't in the mood to be looked at. Or Invite being commented on. 

He did as he was told before and wrung out his clothes before draping them wherever he found some space for them to dry. The shower, the bathtub, empty rungs on the towel dryer. 

For a second, he feared that the jeans wouldn't fit him anymore as they were horribly stiff at first, but then they broke in easily and Steve's body didn't seem to have changed so they wrapped around hips and thighs perfectly still. 

Clint's sweater was a little loose, but it smelled the same as all of Steve's clothes. Of industrial detergent, discrete and professional.   
Yet Steve couldn't deny that he liked the way it felt on his bare skin. Consoling somehow and of sturdy reliance. The same as Clint's hand on his shoulder. 

Steve guessed his chances to be allowed and keep it were low, but for a moment he wondered if he could try. Maybe just never mention it again or bargain for it, turn it into something meaningful and melancholic, the smallest part of something he wanted, they wanted, but that Steve had to turn down. 

Unwilling to return to the others right away, he very stealthily took one step out the bathroom and stretched all the way to his bag to retrieve his phone. 

After all he had promised Brock a call and he'd rather talk to him now than defend his overreaction in front of his friends. 

There was no reply from Brock to their earlier text conversation which wasn't surprising but Steve still feared it was a bad sign. 

He braced himself with a hand on the sink, leaning his body slightly towards it, but purposefully avoided making eye contact with his reflection in the mirror as he called. 

The line rang a couple of times and Steve glanced towards the door, making sure he had closed it. 

"Yeah?" Brock's voice came on at once. 

"Brock?" Steve asked, facepalming himself. He had recognized Brock's voice instantly, possibly another perk of constantly having to rely on remote communication at work. 

"Yeah, it's me, sorry," Brock apologized nonetheless. He had no reason to. 

"I said I'd call, so-," Steve cut in. "I mean, you asked to talk on the phone, right?" 

He knew he was shifting the blame unnecessarily. And it was quite unusual for him to do so. There was nothing wrong with calling. He called people, hook-ups, friends with benefits all the time and never worried about it. Never worried about sending the wrong signal. With Brock, things were out in the open, Steve's position clear. Yet he still worried he was going to be accused of mixed messages later. 

It was a bad sign. 

"I did," Brock started, his tone hesitant. "I did that. Uh," he struggled finding his words, "I wanted to see if you were okay after, well, everything. After being up most of the night and all that. And I was just-," he paused again, "-um, well you know how I get. I was just worried about that whole thing again." 

"I'm fine," Steve assured him. He didn't have trouble picturing Brock worrying. In fact, he could imagine it so well, he felt bad for him. "Is this a bad time?" Steve asked, not sure how to interpret Brock stumbling through all his sentences. 

"No," Brock told him right away. "It's not a bad time." There was another pause and for the first time Steve registered the subtle noises in the back, realizing that Brock wasn't at home. "My friend Sharon," Brock continued before Steve had a chance to ask about it. "You know her, actually. From the airport. Anyway, she lives right by your building and we're hanging out over there later." 

Subconsciously, Steve smiled, caught himself in the mirror. For a split second, he contemplated blaming the alcohol, but that wasn't it. It was hearing Brock's voice and knowing what was coming and already feeling the relief of his own rescue. 

"Just her and Jack and me," Brock went on. "And maybe you want to come over too? For a drink or whatever?" 

This time, when Steve faced himself in the mirror it was deliberate. He was curious about his own reaction. Wondered if he could see what he felt. If there was visible proof of the change he felt had happened today. The shift in what he thought was essential to his life. The shift in what he thought _was_ his life. 

If there was any, he didn't see it. But it wasn't any less real. 

"Sure," he told Brock. It came easy to him now. The decision had already been made, his entire body aligned behind it. So he allowed himself to keep talking. "Sounds good," he added. A lot of things were starting to sound good today. A lot of things Steve wouldn't have guessed. 

"In an hour?" Brock asked. To Steve's surprise, he could hear the doubt he had been expecting from himself in Brock's voice. Caution more than suspicion. He didn't want to get hurt. 

Steve wasn't planning on him to get hurt either. 

"Just text me the address again and I'll be there in an hour," he said, still contemplating himself in the mirror. 

"Okay," Brock told him. His voice was a little steadier. 

"Okay," Steve agreed. He didn't mind them lingering on a call. It was cheesy and unnecessary, it didn't make Steve feel anything else, anything other than he was used to feeling. But it didn't annoy him. He felt, for the first time in his life, endlessly patient. Endlessly understanding of someone else's love. 

"I'll text you the address," Brock mumbled into the shared silence. Then he let it spread once more. Soaked it up maybe. 

"See you then?" Steve tried gently. If he was going to make it in an hour, he had to start collecting his shit and own up to his drama. 

"See you then," Brock echoed. It was permission enough for Steve to hang up. 

He let his thumb hover the screen for just a second, feeling like a mere passenger to his choices today. Like he'd stepped on someone else's plane. Entirely out of control. Captain America lay dying. And with that knowledge he hung up. 

Despite what Nat had offered, Steve began to gather all his clothes that he'd so carefully hung up and bulked them up into one big pile he held under one arm. He was just going to stuff it all into his bag and deal with it once he was home. 

Of course, once he was out in the hall, his actions didn't go unnoticed. 

"What's going on?" Sam asked, and Steve could tell it was out of concern not accusation. "Did something happen?"

"I've got to go," Steve just said, not looking up from his bag until he got the zipper all the way closed. Then he turned to face his friends at the table. "Sorry for-," he hesitated. He wasn't really sorry. It was as if someone continued to tear pieces off a screen obstructing his view. None of this had even been _his_ drama. It was everybody else's. "For leaving early," he concluded then. 

"Where are you going?" Bucky asked first, followed by a more heartbreaking question by Clint. 

"Did I do something wrong," he wondered, looking scared and horrified at once. 

Steve met his eyes with a sincere smile. "No," he told him. 

He was sure that Nat had already done some damage control, most likely telling him that things had changed and that Steve wasn't available anymore. 

Still, he knew it was time to stop hiding. Stop lying. 

"I'm in this thing with Brock," Steve confessed. He glanced over at Bucky for a second, before focusing back on Clint. "The guy from Sam's birthday?" 

Clint nodded. 

"And we're not getting involved on the side at the moment," he said as detached as possible. Of course, part of him wanted to. Wanted to still. See what that mysterious offer entailed. But that part was going to go hungry tonight. 

"I see," Clint said and returned Steve's smile. 

"Since when," Bucky said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of disbelief. 

"Anyway," Steve went on, ignoring Bucky with his eyes still on Clint. "I should have told you." 

"No, I should have told you," Nat corrected. She put a hand on Clint's elbow as an apology. Steve didn't need to feel the touch to know that the gesture was extended to him as well. 

"No," Bucky objected, tone sharp and assertive. "You should have told us."

Steve nodded. He didn't want to bring up the fact anymore that Brock had asked him not to. After all, Steve had agreed without much hesitation. Ultimately, it didn't matter anymore how the secret came to be. 

Sam looked unsurprised and calm. He stayed quiet which confirmed Steve's impression that he had never fully believed his earliest denial that nothing had happened between them anyway. 

"There was a lot to sort out," Steve simply settled on. It didn't explain anything, but he hoped it would signal the complexity of the situation. 

Bucky didn't say anything for a solid minute before Steve couldn't take his silence any longer.

"It's what it is," he said, knowing it wasn't enough of an explanation, but hoping it would resonate in the grand scheme of unwanted relationships anywhere. 

"Don't do that to yourself," Bucky replied. 

Although Steve had expected resistance, anger and disapproval, he hadn't expected the degrading undertones and the hurt that followed Bucky's words. 

"And don't bring him into all our lives," Bucky added as a last thought. Then he shook his head and moved to turn away. 

"It's a little too late for that, isn't it?" Steve asked to stop him, feeling helplessly lost in Bucky's dismissal. He paused for a second before he admitted to what he wasn't sure Bucky had probably figured out by now. "Nat told me."

"Fine," Bucky started again, annoyed. "Don't bring him back into my life then. Just stay away from him." 

For an honest moment, Steve allowed himself to consider it. Explore the option. It was easy enough. Stand up Brock and stay here with Nat and Clint. It surely would send the message. Or even go with Sam and Buck to relive one of the best nights in his life. Get comfortable in between his two best friends and their love for one another. Tucked safely in the middle or balancing around the edges. 

"He's what I need right now," Steve just said, knowing it to be true. But even more so, Brock was what he wanted right now. More than Nat and Clint. More than Sam and Bucky. 

There was nothing else to say. Maybe Brock had changed, maybe he hadn't. He still lashed out and he still was jealous. Maybe he was different with Steve, but his feelings still came on hard and fast and unpredictable. Maybe dangerous even. 

Steve's reluctance to quit things with Brock wasn't born out of some need to prove his character development. Steve was reluctant, because it was what it was and it was what he wanted. 

* * *

Back on the L train, Steve found himself staring out the window once more. Only that it was dark out now and most of the time it was his own face that he saw reflected in the glass. All the features were so familiar, but he recognized first in a long time the way the years had shaped them. And he could see himself down the road, older and hardened at first, salt-and-pepper beard and then all the more fragile and gray, so much of his life lived in the past then. Meanwhile, in the future, he was going to be there alone. As he had been warned all the time. Only he didn't fear it. He felt at peace knowing he had nothing to lose. Not now, not then. That he had never, and never would have, anything to take with him. 

He snapped out of it almost too late, managed to rush out and pass the closing doors at the last second, almost missing his stop. 

The streets were still wet, threatening to freeze over any minute now, but at least it wasn't raining anymore. He needed to hurry if he didn't want to be late, later than necessary, because there was no way he would make it on time. 

He half-jogged down the street, determined to not send the wrong message this time, the message that he didn't care, that nothing mattered, that Brock was going to be stood up and embarrassed in front of his friends. 

He only rushed up into his apartment to dump the contents of his bag into his tub, leaving them to be dealt with later and to grab a bottle of wine from his stack to show some manners and appreciate the invitation. Then he hurried back out, forgetting to take his jacket and relying only on Clint's sweater to keep him warm throughout the five-minute walk. He made it to Sharon's place in three, but was still seven minutes late when he hit the buzzer with a pale blue finger. 

When he was let in and up, Steve felt his blood rushing through his body and he chose to blame the change in temperature. He didn't feel too nervous. This wasn't past his comfort zone. Anything was hardly ever truly outside his comfort zone. Maybe this afternoon came close, but given the circumstances and considering the situation overall, he couldn't find much flaw with his own reaction. He was, after all, only human. 

He had failed to make the connection earlier, when Brock had mentioned Sharon for the first time, but as she stood there in front of him now, he had to admit that it made a lot of sense. 

Brock and Sharon both worked at airport security, so they'd probably spent some time together. Enough to get to know each other. Become friendly. Friends eventually. 

She was more likely to know Brock than she was likely to know Steve, but he remembered her well enough. Remembered her drunk and angry at Bucky's last Christmas party. Remembered the spilled drink and her initial shock over her own action. Remembered Nat not batting an eye when she lifted her arm to lick some of the champagne off her naked skin. Steve didn't remember what their fight was about, didn't remember if he had even asked. He only remembered taking Nat to bed later that night, still tasting the alcohol when he kissed her collarbone and down her chest. 

"Hi," he said, flashing a smile like he usually would. 

"Come on in," Sharon told him, taking a step to the side. 

It was a little more difficult imagining the details of Brock's friendship with her and Steve began to wonder if maybe his impression of Sharon had been slightly off. Or whether Brock had a less repressed side of him that he allowed to show at work at least some of the time. Because Sharon was, if first impressions were anything to go on, feisty and wild and didn't give much of a fuck. It was hard imagining her getting along with someone as compulsively tense as Brock. 

Whatever it was, it wasn't Steve's business. And so it was useless to think too hard about it. He was going to find out more soon enough. 

"Hi Jack," he said once inside. He hadn't expected to see Rollins again anytime soon, but he still extended his hand and forced all previous characterizations of him aside. 

Rollins shook his hand in a casual fashion. He had his condescending grin swapped for a more subtle smirk and Steve wondered if he was the friend that had caressed Brock's ass down at a club or the one that kissed him. 

Somehow either scenario was amusing to Steve. 

Sharon took the bottle of wine off him, admiring the label although Steve got the feeling she didn't really care much about it's year or origin. 

"Sit down, sit down," she said, ushering both of them towards a sofa and two armchairs set around a coffee table. "I get some beers." 

"Where's Brock?" Steve asked, holding Jack's gaze. He assumed things were out in the open enough for everyone to know he hadn't simply found his way into their middle by sheer luck. 

"Bathroom," Jack said, shrugged. 

"Climbing out the window?" Steve asked, but Jack didn't seem to appreciate the joke very much. 

"He'll be right back," Sharon explained, setting a beer down in front of Steve and handing one to Jack directly. "He's nervous," she added, then sat down next to Steve on the sofa. 

For a second, Steve wondered if there was something going on there too, but discarded the thought again. Not everyone enjoyed their friendships with a side of sex. 

"Sounds like him," Steve said with a smile. 

"Are you guys ready for the holidays?" Sharon asked and Steve couldn't help but think of his own group of friends. 

"I'll be touching down just before dinner coming all the way from Dublin, so I've been dodging making any plans," Steve explained, although it had gone without saying that he was most likely expected to tag along with Sam to whatever Bucky had planned. 

"If it's any consolation, I'll be working too," Sharon told him. She lifted her beer to drink to it and Steve joined her. "How about you, Jack?" she asked then. Steve got the feeling that she wasn't just trying to actively include him, but to warm him to Steve by getting them to engage. 

"Same as always," Rollins said. "Eating turkey with the family and hearing everyone's opinion on my life's choices." 

Steve went for a sympathetic expression, but he couldn't overcome the suspicion entirely that Rollins participated a little too willingly when it didn't concern him or topics he deemed irrelevant. 

"I'm glad my family is miles away," Sharon admitted. 

Steve smiled, but didn't add anything to it. 

"It's not that bad," Jack said, possibly on some youthful instinct to defend the roof under which he was born. An instinct Steve had encountered relatively often among co-workers and friends, but that he himself couldn't relate to. He was glad that it was one of the few things he and Brock had in common. 

As if prompted by Steve's thoughts, there was movement in the hall and the three of them looked up. 

"There he is," Jack announced even before Brock was fully standing behind him, but immediately turned to face him. 

Brock's cheeks looked a little flushed and he glanced at Rollins first, before he dared to make eye contact with Steve. 

"Sorry," he apologized quietly. Steve wasn't quite sure what for. Being absent or that he'd interrupted their conversation. It didn't matter. Steve was glad to see him either way, something settling and waking in his skin at the same time. 

He felt a little bit revived at the prospect of the evening. Curiosity had grown and he wanted to not only get to know Sharon better but try to figure Rollins out too. And he was in the mood to flirt. With Brock preferably. He was in the mood to forget about the list of things they had already done. The lines they had crossed, some of them accidentally. Some of them with intense precision and drawn out certainty. 

"Come sit," Sharon offered immediately. She scooted over and patted the spot between herself and Steve. "We've been only comparing our pending Thanksgiving dread so far," she added to get Brock all caught up. 

"Jack won," Steve added. He let his fingers graze along Brock's leg as he made his way past Steve to the empty seat next to him. Though the touch was fleeting, it was exciting, and Steve made sure to follow it up with a smile. 

Brock's reaction wasn't so much as taken aback but rather of careful hesitancy and tender surprise. It was clear, much like on their first night, that he didn't know entirely what to do with Steve's advances. Whether to embrace them or be wary of them and their consequences. 

Trying to nonverbally check in with him, Steve tilted his head and drew his eyebrows close momentarily. 

"Neither of them have relatives around to spend it with," Jack cut in, drawing Brock's focus. 

"Steve brought wine," Sharon announced, adding to the distractions. "You want some?" 

"I'll just have a beer," Brock told her. He made a motion to get up, but Sharon was already on her feet. 

Steve couldn't help but wonder if it was an attempt to get away from him. Maybe something had happened between now and last night. Between now and his texts. Between now and their talk on the phone. 

Immediately, the thought of Bucky making his disapproval known to Brock crossed Steve's mind. 

Steve dismissed the thought though, but took his time to take in Brock once more. He had one arm dangling down the backside of the sofa as he watched Sharon fetch the drink, his profile to Steve. He hadn't shaved, but Steve didn't care. Even liked him like that at times although he very rarely could indulge in the same negligence. His job demanded differently. 

Brock's jaw looked sharper and Steve wondered if, like he himself, Brock hadn't been able to keep up with all his meals in the past months. It wasn't a good look on either of them and it reflected badly on their relationship and the chaos that accompanied it. 

He was dressed down as usual, Sam's birthday the exception to the rule. Steve was used to it by now. The ill-fitting shirts and sweaters that were probably picked up on a side note during a run to the supermarket, hiding the well-trained body underneath them. 

"There you go," Sharon told Brock, handing him an uncapped bottle of beer. The condensation had already left the neck so slippery that Brock wiped his palm on his jeans. Though it wasn't the same pair from last night, they didn't look much better. When he turned back to face the others, he avoided Steve's eyes. 

"Pierce was happy with the flight," Jack said and when Steve looked up he saw that Rollins was talking to him. "Pretty sure he wouldn't mind having you on full-time." 

The open exchange surprised Steve, but then again the only one insisting that something sketchy had been going on was Brock. To everyone it had seemed to be a regular job. 

"He has his own standards when it comes to flying and so far only Barnes has met the requirements," Rollins added. 

"That doesn't surprise me," Steve remarked. He tried to not let his annoyance with Jack's repeated interference show. There was nothing indicating it was done on purpose and so Steve vowed to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"He once told me that during his time in the army he disabled an enemy aircraft by ripping out its steering wheel," Jack replied and it took Steve a second to realize he was talking about Bucky and not O'Hare's CEO. 

This time it was Steve who took the liberty to just shrug and flash a knowing grin. Mostly because talking about Buck still made him feel sore. 

"So he really is feral like that, huh?" Rollins said, contemplating the implications. Steve didn't like his choice of words. "No wonder Pierce hired him," Jack added after finishing his assessment. The additional comment wasn't better than the first and Steve was inclined to adapt Brock's position on Pierce once more. 

"Well, he once sold a weapon to a raccoon, so I wouldn't underestimate him either," Steve told him. It was an attempt to deflect as well as undermine Rollins's remark. 

"Oh my god, what?" Sharon asked confused from the side of the sofa. 

"You're kidding, right?" Jack asked, his face softened a little at the intrigue of the story. 

"It was during a mission abroad, far off from bigger cities and with only small villages nearby, that he noticed a raccoon by the camp that had somehow taken a liking to hoarding all sorts of shiny metal items and coins as well. Local currency was difficult to come by at the time, but very useful to exchange bits of information or buy any luxuries like fresh fruit." 

Everyone was listening with intent and as Steve glanced from Rollins to Sharon, he saw that even Brock's eyes were finally fully on him. 

"Bucky said he tried for a week to steal some of the coins," Steve continued, "With no success. Later he tried to exchange them for empty bullet shells and broken buckles from his gear, but the raccoon wasn't interested. Though with the amount of time he had spent on his knees, crouching by the raccoon's lair, somehow the raccoon had started being awfully curious about the gun in his holster." 

"Please tell me he didn't give his gun to the raccoon," Sharon pleaded with concern. 

"It was just a handgun so he removed all the ammunition and even the trigger before he,-- and I quote--, sold it for a really good price," Steve told them. "Now, I can't confirm if that's really how it happened, but Bucky insists every word of the story is true." 

Despite her earlier concerns, Sharon started laughing and even Jack seemed to relax as he grinned, his expression finally a bit more friendly and a little more open. 

"It does sound like something he would do," Jack admitted, reaching for his drink. "So I'm tempted to believe him." 

"Is that why he always offers a donation pool for the raccoon rescue at the Christmas party?" Sharon asked while Steve just jerked his chin a little, letting the mystery tale continue. "I had such a good time last year," she added almost wistfully. "But after what happened, I don't really hold out hope that I'm going to be invited ever again." 

It was another topic Steve was eager to avoid because he still couldn't remember exactly the source of that conflict. He didn't want Sharon to know though. He wouldn't pick a side either way, knowing that Nat would neither ask him nor expect him to. 

"I'm sure Nat has forgotten all about it by now," Steve tried. He knew that Nat tended to never mention old conflicts, but that didn't mean that she had forgotten about them. In fact, he had a feeling that Natasha Romanoff did not forget. "She doesn't hold grudges," he told Sharon nonetheless. 

"She can be pretty scary though," Sharon reminded him. It was true.

"So can you," Brock said, the first words he had spoken since his apology. Since he had asked for that beer. 

Naturally, Steve's focus was pulled back on him, but Brock was busy sharing a moment with Rollins instead. 

Although he still avoided exchanging looks, Steve was happy to see him relax a little, the tension leaving him visibly. Was happy watching him banter with friends. Happy to witness this side of him. 

Overall, it helped Steve relax in return and trust that he hadn't come for nothing, that this night wouldn't leave him worse than he'd arrived. 

It took a little while longer for Brock to finally return one of Steve's looks, but it paid off threefold. 

He met Steve's gaze finally after having another laugh with Rollins, his eyes still watery from positive emotions. He didn't reach out although Steve would swear he noticed the instinct in a barely there twitch in his shoulder. But he let his head fall back, watched Steve with a mixture of anticipation and satisfaction, with patient appetite. 

And Steve figured it had been nerves before, the unfamiliar situation and not conscious avoidance, that had delayed the reinforcement of their connection. 

The looks kept coming the more Brock relaxed. Everyone else seemed to relax with him. With every small bit of conversation Rollins seemed to grow friendlier and Sharon took every opportunity to speak her mind. Steve could see that her and Brock were somehow even closer than anticipated and there was a lot of physicality happening between them. So much that Steve wondered again whether she was the kiss or the hand on Brock's ass. Either version was amusing as well as it showed the tiniest crack in Brock's black and white thinking. His insistence that gray areas didn't exist. 

"Another beer?" Sharon asked Steve after he'd emptied another bottle. "Or something stronger?" she added, her tone revealing that she definitely thought something stronger should be served tonight.

"What d'you got," Steve asked, thinking of the vodka tonic in Brock's photo from earlier. 

"Some scotch and whiskey, some rum, I think, and possibly leftover tequila," she told him, already prepared to jump up from the sofa and get whatever he would ask for. 

Which wasn't going to be tequila. Somehow Steve thought he was probably done with tequila for a good while. 

"Hit me with the whiskey," he decided, going with his gut feeling. It seemed to be the right drink for the night, the right drink to end this day with. This weekend adventure. 

In between watching the evening unfold, Steve realized that he, too, was feeling completely at ease at once. That he enjoyed spending the evening here, with Brock's friends and with Brock right next to him. 

Though they often exchanged moments of immersive eye contact, Steve failed to notice the moment they had progressed to touching. 

It was only when he caught Jack's repeated glances, lingering just split seconds on the same spot, that Steve followed his gaze and saw his own fingers were happily playing with the cuff of Brock's sweater. The seam was ripped right above his wrist where the warmth of Brock's skin seemed to seep through the torn fabric and the pulse of his heart was beating just beneath Steve's palm.

Jack's expression gave nothing away and so Steve didn't bother to stop, didn't bother to think of it twice. 

As far as he could tell, with the effects of the alcohol warming all of his body and declaring all ideas brilliant, Brock was leaning into the touch, relishing in it. 

And whenever Steve turned to look at him, Brock's face seemed to just verify the story, waking all kinds of memories in the process. 

The need for touch went both ways and Steve wasn't strong enough to fight it even if he'd wanted to. Not today, not after everything. 

Instead, whenever he got a chance now, for more, for any additional touch, he went for it. Fleeting touches against Brock's fingers, his knuckles, the back of his hand, the side of his thigh. Anywhere he could reach without making anyone in the room witness to more private matters. 

The restlessness in Steve's fingertips was only heightened with every other touch, never quite satisfied. But nothing about this night felt hurried, there was no pressure to move anything along. 

It was a perfect evening and the bolder he grew in their conversations the more Steve started to feel grateful for the invitation. Another lifeline Brock had thrown him unknowingly. 

"I vote we do this more often," Sharon said at one point, the alcohol smoothing every letter of every word, but her eyes were lit and awake as she looked at the tiny crowd that constituted her guests. 

"I've got to take fewer weekend shifts, if this is going to become a thing," Jack just said. He pulled out his phone, a gesture Steve knew from himself, figuring he was checking his hours in the upcoming week. With no nine-to-five for orientation it was easy to lose track and easier to mix up the week. 

Steve didn't know for sure if Sharon's suggestion was bound to include him or whether he was just going to be an occasional accessory. He found though that he didn't mind if that were the case. The realization made him turn to Brock, watching him from the side, his mind tracing back all the steps they had taken to get here. 

He didn't love Brock. Just as he'd never loved Nat or Bucky. Just as he'd never loved anybody in his life. But being with him had pulled Steve's life onto a different path like a satellite thrown off its orbit by drifting debris. And that kind of collision had its own long lasting impact. It's own gravitational sex appeal. 

"There are worse ways to spend the time," Brock tried, but his downplay fell flat. However, no one bothered to point it out. Steve wondered if it had to do more with the way Brock and his friends expressed emotions between them than with gracious courtesy. 

When he felt Sharon's eyes on him, Steve felt compelled to chime in as well. "I'm just around the corner so-," he said and made a vague gesture of availability. 

"Wow, guys," Sharon started, her tone mocking. "That level of excitement must be unparalleled too." 

Her callout made Steve grin, but it made him more confident as well. "We should definitely do this more often," he said then. "In fact, we'd love to," he added on purpose, guessing he could at least speak for himself and Brock. Yet, he'd swear there was the tiniest gasp coming from his side. 

Sharon eyed him for a moment that made Steve wonder about how much she knew, but the moment faded almost instantly and then she only looked pleased with his answer. 

When Steve allowed himself a glance towards Brock, he was already waiting, watching Steve with questioning eyes. 

Maybe he'd gone too far. 

"Goes without saying," Jack agreed, paying attention to what played out on the sofa as well. His gaze wasn't judgemental but piercing nonetheless and so Steve reached for his drink in the hope that it would get him out of the crossfire. 

"It's late," Steve started then with the glass emptied. "I should get going before you have Jack there throw me out." 

"You'd be better off," Rollins just said dispassionately. "It'd be worse if she did it herself, trust me." He threw Sharon a look that Steve noted curiously but didn't dare to question. He had a feeling it was a story he wasn't supposed to know just yet. 

"Good to know," he commented instead. "I won't push my luck then." He sat up a little straighter, but his body was hesitant to leave Brock's side more abruptly than necessary. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Sharon warned. "It was great having you." 

Steve believed her although part of him wondered why she'd never reached out to him, but he decided it was useless to pursue that thought. 

Instead he smiled at her. 

Next to him, Brock started to clean up the table and Steve felt as if the spell between them had been broken once more by the rules of the ordinary life. It seemed that in the face of everyday life, of the endless line of necessary acts, attraction just wasn't a big enough force to prevail. 

Sam had once told him that he loved even the way Buck chopped onions, the way he folded the towels, the way he warmed his phone in his hand when the battery went low in a long-shot attempt to prolong its life. 

Steve didn't know if there was a pattern to how Brock did certain things. Things other than sex. Other than being downright unlikeable when he was stressed out. He didn't think he was going to find something noteworthy in the future. He wasn't particularly interested in how Brock liked his cupboards organized or his underwear sorted. He wasn't interested in how Brock held his body when he was uninterrupted by work or Steve's attentive gaze. He was only interested in the chemistry that kept unfolding since the first time they'd stood next to each other. The kind of chemistry that required caution and precision for it to not explode, the kind of chemistry that unleashed its beauty only in kindling. 

When it looked as if Brock was going to stand, he looked back at Steve instead, proving that, maybe, attraction was a big enough force after all. 

And then it was only them. 

"Thank you," Brock said softly. "For coming tonight." His face gave all his feelings away and Steve's first instinct was to look anywhere else. But he didn't. And discovered they weren't as terrifying as they used to be. 

"It was fun," Steve told him, voice low and it was the truth. "Are you coming?" he asked, surprising himself with the question. He'd been in the mood for sex since Clint had first touched him and all evening with Brock by his side. But now the act, more than the thought, seemed so distant and far away, impossible to vitalize. 

"I have to be at the airport later tomorrow afternoon," Brock informed him. It was difficult to tell whether he considered that a benefit or an obstacle. "Night shift," he clarified. One more that he had sworn to lay off. So obviously, he needed rest. But so did Steve. The question was if both of them wanted company. 

"Do you have to go home before work?" Steve asked, his mouth deciding for the rest of his body. He wanted company. Needed it even. Brock's company. 

Brock shook his head. 

"Are you sure?" Steve questioned. Asking himself as much as Brock. This wasn't an offer he spoke often. Or a need that presented itself regularly. This was maybe something he was going to regret in the morning. 

And by then he couldn't ask Brock to leave without sounding like the biggest asshole in town. 

"Can you give me a minute?" Brock asked then. 

"Sure," Steve told him. Watched him walk off to regroup with the others. Say his goodbyes. Add a lie or two. Steve didn't know if they were all the way past that now. 

He didn't want to watch them from his spot on the sofa, so instead he double checked that he had his phone and his keys and went to use the bathroom. 

When he returned just a minute later, Brock was still talking to Sharon and Jack over by the kitchen, his arms draped over Rollins's back. 

This time Steve couldn't muster up enough resolve to look away though he didn't know why he was so drawn to the sight. Maybe because just this morning he'd had suggested inappropriate things about their friendship, had put the thought of Jack right in the middle between them. During a moment that was supposed to be shared by just the two of them. 

Standing there, watching them, Steve wondered about threesomes and how easy they'd become just another part of his life. Just a different way to let friendships play out. Friendships and his friends' relationships. He couldn't quite picture himself and Brock in a similar situation. Didn't think Brock would ever be interested. Just one more thing that didn't matter, that Steve didn't really mind. 

"Okay, let's go," Brock said, suddenly back in front of Steve. He smiled at him as he put on his jacket. 

Steve waved at Sharon as he waited, already bracing himself for the cold outside, bracing himself for the inevitable drop that the sudden end of social situations caused. The loss of the voices and the exchange. Luckily, he was going to be with Brock to soothe that shift. 

He barely noticed his blood freezing on their walk over to his place, but felt the rush of heat almost painfully once they were inside. 

They had hardly spoken outside in the street and the silence expanded within the walls of the apartment, but it wasn't as if there was anything to say. Not after their last talk, their last negotiation.

"I love you," Brock told him. His voice, despite being calm and quiet, seemed to be taking up all the space at once. 

If it had been any other, Steve would have been suffocating between those words. Now he could breathe through them just fine. 

However, he still didn't know what to reply. Nothing ever came to mind that said '_I understand'_, '_I accept_' and '_I'd like to offer something in return_'.

"Third night in a row," Steve just said, facing Brock from the short distance between them. 

Steve could tell by Brock's expression that today it was enough. But it wouldn't last. And soon enough there wouldn't be a good enough reply at hand anymore. Even if it weren't for Brock's night shift the next day, this way of measuring his commitment wasn't sustainable at all. And tomorrow he would have to figure out something else. 

Steve was on his way into the bedroom, one foot past the threshold, when Brock caught up with him, hugging him from behind with impatient hands. 

"These aren't yours" Brock murmured, his words breathy against Steve's ear. "I want them off." 

Steve didn't know about the circumstantial evidence that had led Brock to that conclusion and although he was tempted to argue that those jeans at least were, in fact, his, he let it go. 

Brock's hands were all over his skin right away anyway, riding up the sweater and tugging down the waistband. 

"Did you lose your boxers?" Brock asked with his chin against Steve's shoulder, the height difference preventing him from fully hooking it over. 

"Not really," Steve said. He shook his head lightly over the memory. The afternoon seemed so far away already. And the way he had left his friends didn't feel real at all anymore. 

Brock didn't seem bothered or irritated by any of it, his fingers busy with the button, their destination clear. 

Despite his flirtatious mood all night, Brock's body finally against his and his fingers already wrapping around him, Steve's body was slow to respond. It wasn't any cause for concern, not to Steve who simply decided to blame the alcohol in order to cut everyone involved some slack. 

He closed his eyes though, let his head fall back gently so he could sink into the touch with all of his other senses. 

Brock pushed the jeans over Steve's hips until they fell and Steve was once more confronted with the nakedness of his own body so blatantly on display. 

"Whose is this?" Brock wondered, one hand tightening around the hem of the sweater, already moving it up Steve's chest to get rid of it too. 

"Buck's," Steve lied. He didn't know why. There was no rational explanation for it. He could have just as well told Brock the truth. But he didn't. He wanted to bring up Bucky instead once more, drag his name between them like he was conducting a fucking experiment. Orchestrating some fucked up test for Brock to pass. 

Or to rile him up over nothing. 

"Barnes's, huh?" Brock repeated, his voice was surprisingly steady.

"Yeah, Bucky's," Steve replied, doubling down on his lie. 

"Good," Brock said, holding the sweater in place now. Walking Steve slowly up to the bed with a tight grip on it. Steve went with it, wondering what he'd set in motion. He had no intention of stopping any of it though. 

"Because you're going to fuck me in it?" he guessed, speaking quietly. There wasn't much anticipation in his voice probably, but there was in his body, his heart rate picking up subtle speed to get him hard. 

"Worse," Brock said. He'd let it linger there for a moment while he kissed Steve's neck. Steve didn't know what he braced himself for, but he did so in a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. "Because I'm going to make love to you in it," Brock finished finally. His erection pressed against Steve's back so vividly that it almost mocked his words. 

"I'm not really prepared," Steve started, realizing at once how easy it was for things to get out of hand. He knew he had to cut through his own stupid game before it was too late. He needed to find some footing before allowing it to happen. 

"For what?" Brock asked His questions confusing Steve. 

"Sex," Steve just said. He wasn't going to risk his point being overshadowed by repeating the phrase Brock had chosen. 

"Don't worry," Brock told him, turning Steve in his arms so they could face each other. He put all his height into his stance so he could reach Steve's lips without having to stretch his neck, kissing him almost tentatively. Then he leaned in to speak closer to Steve's ear. "The only thing your hole is good for is to be looked at anyway," he said, almost a whisper. 

There was something in Brock's eyes and his barely there smile that possibly suggested he was trying to make fun of himself more than Steve, although it would have never worked with anyone else. 

"So?" Steve asked dryly, his voice cutting through their quiet exchange from before. Granted, he had very little experience in the area, but he didn't believe this was part of the love making in particular. 

Brock grabbed Steve by the sweater and pulled him into another kiss instead of answering. This time the kiss lasted longer and although Brock was the one holding onto Steve and pressing against him, he let Steve lead and guide him, let Steve kiss just the way he liked it. 

When they broke apart, Brock licked his lips and looked down between them. Then proceeded to open his pants to get his cock out. He dragged the head over the hem of the hoodie and the lower seam of its front pocket, smearing pre-come wherever he could reach. 

Steve watched him do so without interference. 

"I'm sorry," Brock apologized barely audibly, and because he didn't look up, Steve assumed he was talking about his dick on the sweater. But after a short pause Brock continued, his voice losing some more of its tone. "I don't know why it feels good to say these things." 

Steve shook his head before he answered just as quietly. "I trust you not to take it too far," he said. "And so far you haven't." 

It was a lie and they both knew it. Brock had taken it too far more than once. It was just that, each time, Steve had come around, finding his limits readjusted. Finding that he kept slapping '_not-yets_' and '_for-later-maybes_' on every transgression. 

It was a lie that both of them needed. 

"Doesn't make any of it true," Brock said, still not looking up at Steve. But he let go of his own dick to lean into Steve's space, to put his arms around him and put his nose against Steve's chest. 

Steve wasn't sure exactly what Brock meant, whether he called Steve out on his lie or whether he was talking about his own words. 

"And if?" Steve just asked, replying to both with the same attitude as before. 

"Then nothing changes," Brock told Steve and held him even tighter. "Let me take care of this," he offered, pressing his hips against Steve's own erection. Although it had taken him a while to get there, his arousal didn't fade with their conversation. "Of you," Brock added gently. 

"I'm fine," Steve told him out of reflex though it hardly made much sense in their context. His dick could do with some taking care of. 

"I'm actually not too bad at vanilla sex," Brock told him, untangled himself from Steve so he could take a step back and have a better look at him. "Maybe we should try it." 

"We probably should," Steve agreed, holding his gaze. 

This time, the words held some truth, but Steve could tell that the promises behind them didn't. And both of them knew once more. 

"Or this time, you can bend me over and call me a whore," Brock offered. Steve knew this wasn't about what he was going to be called but rather what position he'd be in. An offer that seemed to continue to stand despite the reasonable reservations Steve had explained last night. 

"I can deal with it just fine," Steve said. It was supposed to be a casual remark, but he even failed to convince himself. So Brock hadn't missed it either. 

"There's nothing wrong with getting off on it," he informed Steve in a tone that was a little too understanding and suggested that he wasn't impartial to the outcome of his argument. 

* * *

Steve was bent over the bed, with come all over the back of Clint's sweater and a sticky mixture of spit, sweat and precome between his thighs, feeling dazed and hazy and disoriented when he fully realized what he'd just gotten off on. 

"Don't," Steve said the second he noticed Brock's hands going for his already spent cock, his voice gravelled and rough. 

But by then the evidence was already soaking into the sheet beneath him. 

"You've already come?" Brock asked though it was obvious. "When?" 

"Does it matter?" Steve asked back, trying to get his legs straight and upright. "Isn't that what you wanted," he added, realizing only when he was standing, and Brock's gaze went down to his lap immediately, how bad that idea was. 

"Are you okay?" Brock wondered, the question worse than the way he looked at him. 

"Yeah," Steve just said and he didn't know why he wouldn't be. 

"Hey, Steve," Brock said, brushing his fingers against his chin to get his attention. "It's okay," he added, but Steve didn't know what it meant. Only knew that he didn't like the tone nor the gesture. 

"Don't bother," Steve said, looking down at himself for the first time. He certainly had looked worse coming out of bed, out of sex, but he felt really stupid still being naked from the waist down only. The only thing making him feel better was that Brock looked just as dumb, being dressed, or rather undressed, in the same manner. 

"It was supposed to get you off," Brock reminded him though there was uncertainty in his own voice. "That was the whole point of this." 

"It's fine," Steve said again. He just wanted to clean himself up. 

"It's not," Brock cut in immediately. Then he tentatively reached out for Steve's hand. "Not if you didn't like it." 

"There are worse things than telling me to walk off with a come-stained hoodie and get fucked by all my friends," Steve told him, trying to evade the question that Brock had implied. It worked for a moment as Brock laughed and held onto Steve's hand despite it. 

It didn't feel too strange, not as strange as last night. And Steve felt that he was going to be okay either way. 

"When you put it like that," Brock said, glancing down at their tangled fingers before he let go. "Do you want me to go home?" he asked then. 

"Where did all of this come from?" Steve asked instead of answering. "The sweater?" he added, remembering that he had wanted to get a reaction out of Brock in the first place with the lie he had told about who the hoodie belonged to. 

Brock shook his head. "I may have realized two things today," he started, sitting down on the bed. 

"That's ambitious," Steve interrupted, making Brock snort although he was aware that he was trying to deflect again. 

"I'm in love with you," Brock told him and Steve realized he still liked hearing it. "Maybe especially with those parts I once thought I hated," Brock added. "And also, I think you look at me just fine. It's me who doesn't." 

Steve looked at him skeptically. "Nothing you just said makes any sense to me," he said. He hovered a little tense on his feet, noticing how their different positions put Brock at eye level with his dick. It was distracting, but Steve didn't want to sit down. He wanted to go to the bathroom instead. 

"I'm saying," Brock tried, reached for Steve's hand once more and sighed. "I'm saying," he started again, then took a determined breath, "I think I'm trying to lean into this more. Into a more casual version of us. Where we both get to be who we are without the loss of a compromise. I've broken all of our rules so I think it's only fair we forget about them." 

"A casual version of us?" Steve echoed in disbelief. 

"I don't know," Brock said, looking a bit helpless. "Is there something between casual and serious?" 

"I'm sure we can figure something out," Steve said, not quite sure where he really stood on this. But since Brock didn't either, there was time enough to make up one's mind. 

Brock watched him for a second, apparently not entirely sure what to make of that prospect. Then he gave a shallow nod and Steve mirrored it. 

"I'm gonna go clean up," Steve said, hoping Brock wouldn't want to join him. He felt like he needed just a couple of minutes alone to clear his head and sort through the entire evening and night. 

Brock let go of his hand, made no move to follow him when Steve took a couple of steps around the bed. 

"Steve?" Brock asked then, waiting for some acknowledgement first before he went on. So Steve turned to face him again. "Please don't sleep with anyone else yet," Brock asked then. "No matter what I said. I could still use a little time."

"Wasn't planning to," Steve just said. He hadn't thought it an option and so he hadn't given it more than those passing thoughts in Nat's bathroom. Nothing had changed. "I'm still figuring things out myself." 

Technically, it was an understatement. Steve wasn't just figuring things out. Change was happening and Steve felt it moving around and within him. Taking from him before giving anew. And sleeping with other people wasn't the most pressing item on the list of things Steve wanted to keep despite it. 

"Sometimes it's hard to believe you haven't got it all figured out yet," Brock told him, his expression honest and soft. 

"That's because I thought I had," Steve informed him. 

"And now you don't," Brock asked, pulling one of the pillows into his lap holding on to it with both hands. 

Steve nodded, distracted by the sight. 

"Because of me?" Brock asked. It was difficult to tell whether he was hoping the answer to be yes or whether he was feeling guilty if it would be. 

"Lots of things," Steve just said. Another attempt to get past a question without answering. 

"I wouldn't take any of it back," Brock told him, looking up defiantly. 

"Good," Steve said, walked those two steps over to Brock and leaned down. "Because neither would I," he added before he kissed him. Quick but determined. Then he resumed his way to the bathroom. 

"You got a little come on your sweater," Brock called after him. Steve could hear the smile at the same time as he allowed his own to show. 

"You got a hole in yours," Steve replied without stopping or looking back. He was still smiling though and finally decided to get rid of the hoodie, stripping it off and tossing it over his shoulder into Brock's lap. 


	13. Chapter 13

Steve actively tried to fall asleep so he could put off dealing with everything that had happened over the weekend. His doubts about his job, coming clean about his relationship with Brock and the things that were said during sex with him later. 

Apparently, Brock had developed quite a thing for the idea of Steve sleeping with other people, his friends in particular. It wasn't far fetched and the offer had been on the table that very day. It had been flattering and tempting then. But later, in his own apartment, on his own bed, it hadn't been the same. It hadn't been tempting as soon as Brock had started about all of them basically passing Steve around. 

It had hurt then. 

And even worse than that, it had felt true. 

And somehow he'd still gotten off on it. 

Despite all attempts, sleep was just too far out of reach. And Steve opened his eyes once more, staring into the darkness of his bedroom. 

Next to him, Brock had fallen asleep long ago. The effects of sex and alcohol and the shortened previous night. And his mind allowing it. 

Steve on the other hand was wide awake, his thoughts keeping him up. 

It hadn't been the fantasy that Brock had described that had gotten Steve off eventually, it had been the way Brock had handled him, for once self-confident and decisive, without worrying whether it was going to be good enough for Steve. 

His body hadn't reacted primarily to Brock's words, they were a little questionable anyway, it had reacted to Brock's insisting determination to prove a point. Prove that nothing he'd ever said was that bad in the first place. Because it was never true. And because Steve had been into it all along. 

It fucked with Steve's mind all over again. 

He wasn't sure anymore whether he was ever offended by Brock's words. If he cared in the first place. Wasn't sure if he was into his talk or simply this stupid game they were playing. 

There was a chance, too, that he was into it to prove that same point. That it hadn't been too bad in the first place. That it was fine, really. That he could take it. 

There was a chance that this time, he had actually wanted Brock to use harsher words. 

But it wasn't what Steve wanted to think about now. It wasn't what he wanted to discover about himself yet. 

He had never been particularly interested in being objectified before, had always happily and actively participated in sex no matter his position. He had never felt the urge not to. To just be and let something happen to him. And he hadn't enjoyed it the last time when he'd surrendered to Brock in that manner, during their first night. 

He was too scared to face any revelation about that now, too scared to find out what it meant. 

Instead, he blamed it on everything else. Everything else that was changing and challenging him, everything else that was wrestling in his mind. 

Brock was still sleeping, in Steve's arms, unaware of what Steve was going through. Although Steve hadn't been fond of this proximity before, he needed it now as it anchored him. He held onto Brock, hoping he would pull him along into a state of sleep, that he would protect Steve from falling victim to those unwelcomed revelations. 

He had never let anyone treat him the way Brock did, not as bad yet not as committed either. Committed to whatever was going on. Whatever they were. And he couldn't explain why. Couldn't give a reason even if he'd wanted to. 

And he wasn't sure whether it was a mistake or not. Whether it would serve him in the end, would prove to be worth it. 

Everything about this was new, and a light shudder ran through Steve's body as he allowed that feeling to take hold. He moved his hand up Brock's skin and pressed his lips against his shoulder blade, somewhere between a kiss and a mere desperate attempt to muzzle himself, keep any thoughts from accidentally slipping out. 

He was tired, but he was too worked up to sleep. Maybe even too scared. He wasn't sure if he could trust himself with Brock right there. He was sure he was either going to fight him off as soon as he'd nodded off or he would cling to Brock even harder, even more unlike him. 

Every now and then his fingers twitched with the idea of gathering his phone, checking it for messages. From Sam. From Bucky. From Nat. 

They were there, he had no doubt, but he was undecided whether he wanted to read them. He still needed a break, a time out. 

And there was something else working its way to the surface of his thoughts. Maybe it had even been prompted by what had happened earlier. By Brock's bluntness. By his words. By the way he had taken possession of Steve, bending him over and getting off of him ruthlessly. 

He felt the painful need to come clean. To absolve himself of the last lie standing between them. It lay between them like a shard of glass, threatening to bare skin and all the other, so intimate, parts that had started to expose themselves. 

Only, it wasn't Steve's truth to tell and he doubted he could convince Bucky to do so. On top of that, there was nothing that indicated Bucky's fears, his complaints, hadn't come with a solid foundation. There was no way of knowing now, years later, whether Brock had been dangerous or not. 

Though Brock's body was keeping him warm, Steve pulled sheets and comforter a little higher, making sure none of the naked skin around his shoulders was exposed to the dark of the night. 

He closed his eyes once more, tried to focus on his breathing first, then on Brock's to find ways to disassociate a little from his body. In this moment, he didn't think he would ever want to be with anyone else. 

It was a passing feeling though, a momentary emotion, like irritation from hunger or hopelessness from sleep deprivation. This, too, was bound to pass. Commitment from contentment, from displacement, from being pulled apart and stacked back together incorrectly. 

These past days, Steve didn't recognize himself. So he had rejected and abandoned those that still did. Had latched onto whoever didn't know him too well yet. Strangers couldn't pin down the change. So he had latched onto Brock who had come to love Steve at the threshold of this change. 

It didn't matter that Brock had given his blessing to return to them. Sleep with any and all of them. None of this was about Brock anymore. 

Right now, Steve didn't think he could ever enjoy sex again that wasn't heavy and hurtful. Humiliating even. He didn't think he could go about it with the same confidence. 

Nothing could ever go back to how it was before. 

Maybe one day he would ask Nat and Clint for a second chance and maybe he'd go through with it. He would enjoy it, but he could already tell it wasn't going to cut and sting in the same way. It would be arousing, even satisfying, but it wouldn't be fulfilling. It wouldn't give him relief. 

He was fucked. 

The night took him in eventually, bringing about numbing yet restless sleep. Every couple of hours, Steve woke up, his eyes heavy and his mind foggy and he turned beneath the sheets, seeking out Brock whenever he woke up without skin contact. 

There was no reason for it and he had never before felt any need for it. It had always been enough even knowing the person he wanted around was in the room, was next to him somewhere. He didn't need to feel it to know it. Didn't need the proximity to feel a connection. 

But things were different that night. And part of Steve blamed Brock, what they'd done earlier, the moments Steve wasn't able to sort through yet. So he let Brock carry the weight of the consequences. The weight of Steve's distortions. Of him not being in his body unless his body was edged against something else. Someone else. 

The morning passed like this, and so did noon, and it was only an hour or two later that Brock started touching him back. That he started pressing his lips against Steve's body, exploring it while he slowly woke himself. 

"I wish I could stay," he said, residue of sleep in his voice. 

Some part within Steve reacted like it always had and took those words for a subtle threat. The other was too tired, too caught up with different issues to care. Overall, Steve couldn't blame him for feeling like that. He even understood. 

"I was always looking forward to leaving," he told Brock. "I've always loved piloting more than being here." 

The apartment had always been home to Steve. The place to come back to and start off from again. This was where he had been based ever since he started flying. But the flight deck, any flight deck, had been where his heart was at always. It was the one place that knew no longing. The flight deck had always been his longing's end. 

Until now.

"But?" Brock asked, his voice pulling Steve from his thoughts tenderly.

"But now I think if I didn't go, I wouldn't miss it as much," Steve admitted. Barely recognized himself. 

He never thought he'd say those words and be of sane mind still. 

"Is Steven Rogers becoming more homey?" Brock wondered, picking up on the irritation. On the change. 

Steve didn't like the sound of those words. They didn't sound right either. It was like trying on clothes that didn't fit. There was a chance he'd grow into them, but no way to know for sure. 

"I don't know," he said finally. 

No way to know for sure. 

Surely, he was becoming something. More in some parts and less in others. No way to know for sure. 

He shrugged again as their eyes met. And when Brock leaned in for a kiss, Steve was more than willing to go with it. 

Never before had he wanted to share so many of the things uncertain to him. Never before was he willing to share more than the finished product. And it scared him. 

"There's something you should know," Steve started although everything within him refused to branch deeper into the subject. But he had to say something. If only to get the focus off himself.

"And what's that?" Brock asked, his tone was as playful and the way he draped himself over Steve's body. 

"Something like last night," Steve began, just as careful as before. "I don't think I'm ever going to be able to offer the same thing." 

Brock paused, pushed himself up and away from Steve so he could look at him. "The sex?" he asked, his face set in confusion. 

"No," Steve said, tempted to pull Brock back in, but he managed to restrain himself. "Just a night with friends." 

Brock's expression changed as he understood. He nodded, bit his bottom lip maybe to keep from saying something. 

"Even if I wanted to," Steve added, just in case they were having another misunderstanding. "Things were different for him." 

Steve watched out for any sign that Brock wasn't aware of who he was talking about, but there was none. Instead Brock nodded again, his eyes darting over Steve's face. 

And somehow he read there, even before Steve found the courage, before he'd abandoned all integrity in order to betray Bucky's trust, everything Steve wanted him to know. 

"Don't," Brock said, but it was too late. Steve wasn't going to let him take that decision from him. Even though it was a mistake. Even though it was a horrible thing to do. Even though he could never undo the betrayal. 

"The discharge wasn't the reason for the breakup," Steve said and was about to let Brock know that it was the other way around instead when he was interrupted again. 

"I don't need to hear it," Brock just said. He closed his eyes and brought his forehead against Steve's. "I always knew it was him," he added, barely audible. "On some level. I guess I always figured." 

Steve tilted his head so their lips brushed against each other. He didn't care. It was none of his business. 

Brock kissed him back, not angry as Steve had expected, but slow and tender as if to prove to Buck that he was capable of it. 

There was no need for many words after that. Everything that needed to be said had been said. At some point too much or too violently. 

For once, Steve enjoyed the silence as Brock jerked him off, unhurried and without hidden agendas. He didn't touch him anywhere else, didn't try to get anything else going. Maybe he was making up for last night, for his lack of attention towards Steve's dick. 

"So we're capable of this now?" Steve asked once they were finished. Had finished. He was lying on his back, coming back into his body whether he wanted to or not. "Doing it like this?"

"Honestly," Brock started, rolled over so he could put his chin against Steve's shoulder as he spoke. "I don't know." It was barely a laughter that escaped with his words, but it ran through Steve's body nonetheless. Leaving him grinning. 

"Yeah, you're right," he said, tilting his head so he could watch Brock from the side. "It didn't feel like us." 

"Us, huh?" Brock echoed, raising his eyebrows. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, maybe add to his teasing words, but then he paused. Maybe thinking better of it. Instead he held Steve's gaze for a moment before he tried again. "You think there could be an us even without any rules?" 

Now it was Steve's turn to almost let any next thought slip, but he, too, thought better of it. He took the question seriously instead, finally getting somewhere with his quest for an answer to Brock's I-love-yous. 

"I think," he started and let his head roll back so he could stare at the ceiling instead. "I think it all just began." He paused to consider himself. His own beliefs. His sense of self. "I think anything is possible."

* * *

On Monday afternoon, Steve dreaded once more heading out for the job he used to love. He knew Sam wasn't going to be happy with him once he saw him at the airport. He could only guess the kinds of things Bucky would have had to say about him.

But to his surprise, Sam seemed to be in a good mood. Happy, relaxed, forgiving towards whatever drama Steve had participated in over the weekend. 

This should have helped Steve feel better about the situation he was in, but it didn't. He still wished himself anywhere else. 

"You had a good weekend?" Sam asked, catching up with him easily on their way towards the gate. 

Steve just nodded. They'd just passed security checks and he was annoyed with himself that the whole process had made him think of Brock. 

"You're not going to fight with me all over again, are you?" Sam asked then, his tone was light but being reminded of what their friendship had to endure in the past months wasn't such a great opener. 

"I'm going to quit doing the long hauls," Steve just told him at once. "Next month, I'm not going to bid on them anymore. It's not for me. It never was." 

"Is this punishment for what Bucky said the other day?" Sam wondered after a second long break. 

"Of course not," Steve assured him. 

With a hand on Steve's shoulder, Sam stopped his tracks, and turned him until they were face to face. His hand slipped down a little as his eyes mapped every detail of Steve's expression until he possibly found what he was looking for. Then he nodded. 

"Okay," he just said, letting go of Steve's arm. "I got it, it's not for you," he echoed. 

They looked at each other in pause for a moment before Steve nodded and Sam mirrored it. 

"You're going to be fine without me," Steve told him although he felt it unnecessary. Unnecessarily patronizing. 

"I know," Sam just said, possibly agreeing with the unnecessity of it. "It won't be as much fun though," he added before taking a step back. Then he slowly began walking again, giving Steve time to catch up. 

The first flight segment went fine and like two wise men, both Steve and Sam stayed clear of all matters involving either Bucky or Brock. They kept things light and although Steve hadn't originally planned on it, he left the command with Sam to be sure the long distance stint would at least pay off for his hours. 

"You know, plenty of married couples fly together," Steve said eventually, breaking the unspoken truce. "Bid together," he added carefully. "Maybe Buck's still got a chance to be your co-pilot one day. And you his." 

Sam glanced at him then looked back out into the sky that lay ahead. "Maybe," he echoed in a tone that Steve couldn't read. 

"I could put in a word for him," Steve added, thinking he was in a good enough position to make recommendations. Refer capable replacements. 

When Sam didn't add anything else, Steve decided that mentioning Buck wasn't going to get him anywhere. Although he still had some questions about the last time he'd seen both of them, about the way Buck had acted and mostly about how Sam had played along like it wasn't a big deal, Steve remained silent. 

The days and miles passed in a blur, the hotels and the pilot lounges. The problem wasn't that Steve was somewhere else, anywhere else, it was simply that he always seemed to be far ahead. He was thinking about landing when they were flying, about eating while they were landing, about sleeping while he was eating. And when it was time to wake up he was already out on the ramp, taxiing towards the runway. Some part of him had decided to skip the present without him meaning too, the week passing by in distortions. 

Whenever Brock texted him, Steve answered within minutes, his mind already working on another reply, another angle to consider, another guess as to where things were heading. He hadn't been planning on it when it happened and he hadn't been proud of it either. When he offered Brock to finally fuck him the way he had wanted to for weeks now, it had been sudden and for his own selfish reasons. 

At night, he often lay awake, thinking of what had happened just before he'd left. Thinking of Brock's unrelenting need to humiliate. And his need to have Steve participate in his own humiliation. 

Then thinking of his own behavior, his own reaction. The arousal and the orgasm, the pleasure and the confusion. Thinking about the things he didn't want to think about. Didn't want to discover. Not yet, later maybe. Always later. 

Instead, he grasped at the first straw to take his mind a million miles away from what he didn't want to circle back to. The one thing that took him away without taking his mind off of Brock or off of sex for that matter. It was on a whim when he asked Brock whether he finally wanted to change positions. Part of him was convinced Brock would pull back from the opportunity as soon as it threatened to turn into reality. 

But Brock didn't. Proving Steve wrong. Maybe proving another point. Maybe he genuinely wanted to see what it would feel like with Steve. 

And Steve needed something to look forward to. Something to focus on. Something to be in control of. 

There was little to talk about with Sam, every topic a minefield. It was only on their way home, when they weren't even piloting, just deadheading back from Minneapolis, when Steve finally realized that sitting on his unanswered questions wouldn't get him anywhere either. 

"What was going on with you and Buck last week?" he asked, moving his eyes off the view through the small window and onto Sam. "At Nat's." 

"What do you mean what was going on?" Sam asked right back. It was hard to tell whether Sam didn't want to remember, didn't want to talk about it or simply didn't want to have any part in what had happened. 

"Asking me to stay over," Steve clarified. "Stay the night." 

Sam looked away at once and Steve feared it was out of annoyance. There was a moment of silence as Sam checked whether anyone next to them or behind them was paying too much attention. 

"You've been changing, Steve," he said eventually, keeping his voice down. "Ever since my birthday. Since Brock." 

"So?" Steve asked. It hadn't gone past him. 

"So it's difficult to keep up with you," Sam just said. 

"You don't have to," Steve assured him, both of them. Buck in absentia. "But that doesn't answer my question." 

"The fact that we're here right now talking about something that never happened should give you enough of an answer." 

Steve frowned, irritation spreading all over his face. He didn't get it. 

"You're not the only one who's lost their way a little, okay?" Sam went on. "But it's time that all of us get our shit back together. You, me, Bucky, Nat. We've all made some terrible choices these past months. This past week. It's time to turn back the clock." 

Steve took his time to consider it. To put it all into perspective. To consider Sam's own circumstances, the job and the relationship troubles, the worries about Bucky and his future. He needed to remind himself of all those things in order to not take offense. 

"It's not going to happen, Sam," Steve told him. "For any of us." 

Sam shook his head even without looking at him. "Are you really thinking about quitting your job?" he asked, avoiding Steve's eyes but watching his reaction from the side. Steve figured Bucky must have told him. 

"I'm thinking about seeing what else is out there," he rephrased. 

"I'm trying to be supportive, you know?" Sam told him. "We both are," he added, maybe hoping the mention of Buck would make Steve more receptive. "It's not always easy when it comes to your decisions." 

"I may have made a mistake," Steve started and he could almost feel the wave of relief falling off of Sam at the admission. But Steve was going to disappoint him once more. "Flying that private jet," he clarified. "You know we're not allowed to offer services on the side." 

"Did you offer or were you approached?" Sam asked, knowing the distinction made all the difference. 

"Doesn't matter," Steve said nonetheless. "If word goes around, I'll get fired anyway." 

The truth was that Steve wouldn't put it past Pierce himself to spread the word, to add some false information in order to free Steve for his own flights. If what Jack Rollins had said was true, that Pierce wanted him on his flights more often, he'd find a way to get his wish. 

"Then why did you?" Sam asked and Steve assumed he wanted to hear that it had something to do with Brock. 

Steve shrugged. "I was tired," he said instead. And he really was tired of the flights, of not being in control. Of time zones and being jet lagged. Of being too tired to laugh, to flirt, to fuck or to enjoy himself. 

Tired of knowing Sam was either going to leave his cockpit or outshine him eventually. 

Sam shook his head, unsatisfied with Steve's explanation. But the truth wasn't going to help either of them, of that Steve was sure. 

"I wanted to change things before they were changed for me," Steve admitted, hoping this time it said it all. 

Back on the ground, Steve felt, for once, not as tired as he used to in the past months. He was instead looking forward to home, looking forward to seeing Brock, looking forward to taking his time and enjoying every second he was going to spend in bed with him. Asleep or engaged in whatever sexual fantasy they'd wade into this time around. 

Sam was angry with him, although he wouldn't say so. Both of them kept a friendly facade. A smile being part of the uniform after all. Technically they were still on the job. And they would be until crossing O'Hare's threshold. 

"Are you coming over later?" Sam asked and Steve knew the question was genuine despite everything. 

"Is Buck going to punch me?" Steve asked back. He didn't even know if he was being serious or not. 

"Depends on whether you bring Brock," Sam told Steve without looking at him. " I guess," he added as if he didn't care. And he probably didn't. He'd never been particularly bothered by the whole thing anyway. 

Steve swallowed, knowing now would be a good time to inform Sam that Brock was just outside the arrival doors waiting for Steve to step through. 

Only he didn't know how to bring it up at least somewhat elegantly. 

"I won't," Steve assured him, then braced himself. "You might still run into him though," he said, keeping all emotions out of his tone. "Today even." 

Sam just gave him a look, catching on quicker even than Steve had expected. Sam's expression reminded Steve that airport pick-ups weren't meaningless in the world of romance and love. That something didn't add up. Words and behavior. Emotions, the lack of emotions. The dance two adult men did around the fact that they enjoyed sleeping together regularly. 

This time Steve didn't shrug although he had the impulse to do just that. Instead he put a hand on Sam's shoulder to stop his tracks for a second. 

"I'm still a good pilot," he said, every last part of his body calm. "I don't take unnecessary risks. I never have." 

Sam's expression was blank and Steve couldn't read much of it. They stayed like that a moment longer but nothing changed. 

Then Sam gave him a nod, so faint Steve couldn't be sure that it was intentional. 

He returned it nonetheless, letting go of Sam's shoulder and holding on to his bag instead. He had nothing more to say and he was ready to go and get home. Put this week behind him and forget about all this for a couple of hours. 

He let himself be swept towards the exit with the rest of the passengers, Sam beside him until Steve caught a glimpse of Brock through the crowd and he slowed down for a second without meaning to. 

He liked what he saw. And if he hadn't been looking forward to their evening together anyway, this moment would have done it. Would have put him in the mood. 

The mixture of familiarity and novelty was enticing, the memories of what they'd already done and the vague knowledge of what was to come. 

Sam just kept walking, past Brock and out of the terminal, only turning back once to give Steve another nod. 

"There's nothing to see," Brock muttered, his eyes were on Sam too and he only turned slowly to face Steve. "Nothing to worry about." 

Steve was only listening half-heartedly, but even then he was aware there was plenty to worry about. But not today. All of their worries could wait twelve hours, twenty-four if they were lucky. 

Steve basically walked up into the kiss, couldn't care less about being seen, about rules he'd once sworn to live by, about sending a wrong message. 

Some things, in certain moments just had to be done. And in that moment, kissing Brock was one of those things. 

It did not come as a surprise that Brock hadn't expected Steve to make their greeting this physical, but it only enforced Steve's belief that he could still trust his instincts. 

They were past misunderstandings by now. 

After the initial shock had faded, Brock kissed him back just as willingly, just as openly and as intense, expressing what was impossible to phrase more eloquently.

* * *

On their way to Brock's, Steve bought a fresh box of condoms and a brand-new bottle of lube. They had fucked just twice at Brock's, but both times Steve had had enough low quality lube on and up his ass to know it wasn't really enjoyable. What was supposed to be just a slick slide had often bordered on feeling oily, then turning sticky and leaving behind dry skin. 

Once they arrived at the apartment, Steve opted for a shower first, wanted to get rid of work and worries and make sure his body and mind were refreshed. 

Brock was waiting for him, sitting on the edge of his bed, his old bottle of lube in his hand.

"The stuff I got you is to make you hurt less and feel more," Steve told him, after he'd watched Brock for a second. 

He had startled him. There was surprise in Brock's expression and he rushed to drop the bottle as if feeling caught. 

"That's reassuring," he commented, oozing nerves and tension. "I'm sorry," he told Steve then, more quietly. "I didn't know." 

Of course, he didn't. But it didn't matter anymore. What mattered to Steve was what was going to happen from here on out. He walked over and took the spot next to Brock. 

"I think I'm going insane," Brock said, as soon as Steve had sat down. 

Steve took a look at him from the side, assessing just the level of insanity they were talking about. "You want to stop and do something else?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral, impartial to any outcome. 

"No," Brock said, meeting Steve's eyes for a second. "I have to tell you something, that's all." 

Steve braced himself for the continuation of his story with Bucky. Braced himself for even more complicating secrets or an admission of guilt. An admission of what he'd done back then that had Buck cornered until his last resort.

"Me and Jack," Brock said, pulling the plug on Steve's fears. 

"Did something happen?" Steve asked out of reflex as he adjusted his worries. Brock's thoughts on Pierce and their trip to D.C. washed up on his mind immediately. 

"I think something might," Brock told him and Steve's pulse began to quicken. "I think I want it to," Brock went on. He kept his eyes down and hidden from Steve. "I think he wants to. I thought you should know." 

It finally clicked and Steve allowed himself to let out the smallest breath of annoyance. "I'm not really in the mood for threesomes right now," he informed him. 

Brock looked up to face Steve now, a frown on his forehead. "That's not why I'm telling you."

"So you're telling me we're done," Steve concluded. It was bound to happen although some of Brock's words had given him hope that it wasn't. The declarations of irrelevance. Now it mattered again who Steve was. It always did in the end. 

"No," Brock said and Steve focused back on hearing him out. "I just wanted you to know that maybe something was going to happen. On the side. Or rather, you know, just right here." For a second that twitch in Brock's hand was back and Steve thought he was going to reach out. He didn't. "I don't know how that will affect us," he went on instead. "But Jack knows that I'm in love with you. He knows I want you just as much." 

"And now you're asking me for permission," Steve finished. 

Brock looked at him, a hint of doubt in his eyes before he replied. "I think so."

It hadn't ever happened to Steve before. He had never been consulted when someone he was sleeping with was longing for different things. He had been pressured and guilt-tripped. Accused and confronted with countless ultimatums. He had been quietly dumped or ghosted. He had never been asked for an opinion or asked for permission. He didn't know what to do with it. 

"Can we talk about it later?" he stalled. And the answer seemed to surprise Brock. 

"Sure," he told Steve nonetheless. Threw in a nod and a smile. It softened Steve's worries. 

"I'm not saying no," he assured him. "It's just something I've never been asked before." 

Brock tilted his head and looked at Steve with an expression full of suspicion. "You're saying you've never been involved with someone who was in a relationship?"

"Not like that," Steve clarified. "Not like," he paused, not knowing how to phrase it better. "Not as a long term arrangement." 

Oddly enough, it didn't feel too strange spelling it out. Wasn't this where they were heading after all? Wasn't this what Steve had been struggling with yet had been steering towards? 

"So you think we might last a while, huh?" Brock asked. He was smiling as he did so, every part of his face seemed to have lit up. Maybe Steve had gone too far, Brock's happiness scaring him. It wasn't like Steve to break promises or give his words lightly. It wasn't like him to agree to something and not be willing to see it through, to bear all consequences. But this was new and he feared he would have to retract. 

To make himself stop second-guessing his words, he chose to dive into more familiar waters, his hands eager to get on Brock's skin. 

He unbuttoned his shirt in concentration, not unlike the first time, and let the arousal build slowly with every newly revealed spot of nakedness. 

He used hands, fingers and his lips for contact, always paying attention to all the ways Brock reacted to his touch. He wanted him in the mood too. Wanted him wanting it more than he had ever imagined. 

Once they were both naked and on the bed, the bottle of lube in Steve's hand, more weight settled between them. 

"Come on, it's not the first time I've done this," Brock reminded him. He looked quite carefree there in the sheets, but Steve found it difficult to trust him. Part of him still expected Brock to lash out the second something unexpected or uncomfortable was going to happen. 

It was so rare nowadays that Steve felt tense in the face of the pressure to perform well. Yet, here he was, his body preparing for a thorough presentation of skill.

"It's the first time you're gonna love it," he told Brock, uncapping the lube and slicking up his fingers. 

Steve licked his lips, ready to concentrate, to focus, be present in the moment. He let the back of his hand brush down along the inside of Brock's thigh, used the other to nudge his knees just a little further apart. 

"I love you," Brock said suddenly, quietly, but not quietly enough. And so Steve looked up, distracted from the task at hand. 

"Do you keep telling me to make me feel bad?" he wondered. 

"The opposite," Brock told him. "I know you like hearing it. And I don't mind saying it." 

It was true. Steve liked hearing it. Although he wasn't as thirsty for it as he'd been on that hotel floor in the middle of the night, the words still aroused him. He didn't know why. They had never before. But there was something about the way Brock expressed those feelings, not as an expectation, not as an obligation, simply something he'd learned about himself. An ugly truth he'd come to accept. 

The rush of arousal brought Steve's focus back to Brock's naked body, waiting to be touched, entered, discovered. Steve used the back of his fingers first,-- lightly brushing against Brock's rim--, to get him used to the touch while keeping his fingertips slick. 

Brock leaned into the touch almost immediately and Steve knew from then on out that he wouldn't have to work too hard for Brock's body to accept and accommodate him. Maybe love was a different kind of lube. 

"You're really going to be annoyingly good at this, aren't you?" Brock asked and Steve used his free hand to give Brock's cock a stroke in order to prove that exact point. 

Despite Brock's tendency to avoid eye contact during sex, he was looking at Steve now, facing him, watching him with alert eyes. Watching him as that first finger sank in, taking it without blinking. 

"I don't think you're going to have many reasons to complain," Steve said, keeping pressure and pace steady. 

The way Brock relaxed around him, malleable and generous, Steve knew that Brock's so called preferences hadn't been informed by physical strains or limits. It was a relief as he was still supposed to take Steve's dick later and Steve had no intention of hurting him in the process. 

"No," Brock started. Agreed. "I guess not." He paused for a second then spoke with a smirk that was probably meant to be sexy. "I could still talk you through it?" he offered as Steve eased his finger back out all the way. It was time for another. "If you want me to." 

It was the last thing Steve wanted. Not enough time had passed, he hadn't yet figured out what to do with those words. How to digest them after the act. 

"Talk me through it?" he wondered. "Or yourself?" He spoke slowly and quietly, focused on his fingers, the new stretch that Brock didn't seem to care about at all. 

"Either," he just said. It made no difference to him. Brock Rumlow knew his way around insults as well as how to cope with them. 

Steve let his head bump against Brock's knee, brushed his lips against Brock's thigh. Frustration and impatience was growing within him. They weren't on this bed to talk. He had his fingers inside Brock, but was looking for a different reaction than this. For once this wasn't supposed to be about Steve. 

"I kind of really need you to kiss me right now," Brock told him out of the blue. Maybe he was more insecure about this than Steve had thought. 

He pulled his fingers free and complied. He didn't mind. Maybe slowing down was for the best. With his tensing mood Steve wasn't doing anyone a favor. It was good to take a break and then start anew. 

But just when he was about to insert his fingers again, Brock interrupted him once more. 

"I'm good, I'm ready," he insisted. But it was a foolish hill to die on. "If you're thinking I couldn't possibly need it that badly," Brock continued, "you're wrong. I really do need it that bad."

It was lovely to hear yet hard to believe. Hard to believe that Brock would admit it. The fact that he needed it badly wasn't a surprise at all. Who wouldn't after denying themselves for too long without reason.

But Steve believed that good prep was the best foundation for good sex, so he refused to let Brock rush him.

Fingerfucked him instead for as long as either of them could bear. 

"Steve," Brock complained eventually. "I want more." 

And Steve wanted it too, stretched Brock's rim over three fingers for the first time. 

Brock's body reacted instantly, jerked away from Steve at the same time as Brock protested verbally. 

"Stop, stop, stop," he insisted. Steve had a couple of seconds to sit with the shock before Brock explained. "I'm too close," he told Steve. "And I need you to fuck me before I come." 

Personally, Steve didn't mind getting off on foreplay, but then again he never had any trouble finding a second orgasm during the action that followed. Brock had already told him he wasn't one for back-to-back sex, that he usually needed more time in between to recover. He had only one shot and he didn't want to waste it on being fingered. Steve couldn't relate, but he still understood. 

"Okay," he told him. Steve knew first-hand that Brock's body was ready, but that didn't necessarily mean he was ready all the way. His reaction just now could have been promoted by subconscious fear. "This isn't the panic attack I worried you might have, right?" Steve asked, just to make sure. 

"No," Brock assured him and so Steve opened the box of condoms and got one out, tearing open the wrapper with steady hands. "I just-," Brock tried, but then fell silent again for a short second. "How do you cope afterwards? With how weird it feels," he asked tentatively. 

Steve looked up from where he'd just finished rolling the condom onto his own dick. He was good to go. "I'll make it feel good," he promised. 

Brock nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then tried rearrange his body, visibly uncertain which position to choose. 

"Just get comfortable," Steve told him. "I'll make it good afterwards," he assured him again. 

After another nod Brock lay down on his front with his chest down on the sheets, unwilling or unable to face Steve during sex. Too self-conscious to allow being looked at. But Steve watched him all the same, his eyes scanning over Brock's body to take it all in. To make sure he wouldn't miss anything, could read him all the same even with his back turned.

"You're not suddenly scared, are you?" Brock asked, noting the delay. His voice was muffled by the sheets against his cheek. 

Steve brushed a hand against his shoulder blade and then let his fingers run down Brock's back. 

He shook his head. "No," he said once it came to him that Brock couldn't see him. 

Then he arranged his body alongside Brock's, holding himself up so he was halfway draped on top of him. 

"Don't hold your breath," he reminded Brock, pressing his lips against the side of Brock's neck. 

Brock's pulse was racing, his heart beating at the tip of Steve's tongue and the taste of his sweat in Steve's mouth. 

Like he was told, Brock loosened his chest a little, releasing a breath. 

Steve used another finger first, testing the waters, getting a better sense of the resistance. That bit of penetration was enough though to have Brock gasp, his body seeking more of Steve. 

"Good," Steve breathed, not quite daring to give his words more tone. He didn't know how much encouragement Brock needed. He didn't know how much talking they would endure. 

He lined himself up but didn't push forward right away. Instead he waited for the inevitable, for Brock's body to succumb to anticipation and impatience. He knew from experience that it made the initial stretch so much better if it was actively sought out. And he knew Brock would eventually get there. All Steve had to do was wait for him. Tease him with the lightest touch, the lightest pressure. 

"Fuck," Brock muttered, holding out longer than Steve would have guessed. A shiver ran down his back and Steve pressed his forehead against Brock's spine to ground him. 

All of Steve's focus went into his self-control, his body tense and tight all over. Part of him tried to convince the other to just enjoy this for himself, close his eyes and sink into the moment, sink into Brock. Have all the sensations to himself. But it didn't succeed. 

When Brock's hips finally jerked back, when he finally allowed himself to go after what he'd begged for for a while now, Steve moved with him, fully in control, just enough to slow them down. For Brock's body to adjust, to take him in gently, to open up more naturally instead of being forced to accommodate all of him at once. 

"Shit," Brock cursed again, his hand frantically searching for Steve's. 

Steve braced himself on one elbow to allow Brock to hold onto him, intertwining their fingers. He had promised to make it good after all. It helped distract from how good friction and heat felt at the tip of his cock. 

"More," Brock demanded. His breaths were short and rough, and although Steve didn't doubt that he was ready for more, it was too early to just push in all the way, too early for a thrust. "Steve, come on," he tried again, sounding a bit choked up. 

"Breathe," Steve told him once more. Then bit his lips to hold himself back. 

"I don't want to breathe," Brock snapped back, tilting his head so he could catch a glimpse of Steve. "I want you to fuck me," he insisted. 

In any other moment, Steve would have taken the opportunity to take those words, add to them some of Brock's earlier insults and then hand them back with satisfaction. But he knew the feeling too well. The first couple of seconds of overwhelming stretch and intrusion. If it didn't hurt, it was still a lot to process and the call for movement, for progression, came quite naturally. Especially if those physical sensations were coupled with emotional discomfort and shame. Steve wanted to say something, anything, but he feared he would only draw more attention to the moment Brock wanted to get away from. 

To distract both of them, he kissed along Brock's shoulder and up his neck, his own breaths hot against Brock's shivering skin. 

Inch by inch, he worked himself deeper into Brock, slower and more careful than anyone had ever been with him. By now the stretch shouldn't feel as foreign anymore and as he felt Brock relaxing into the moment, Steve allowed himself to do the same. 

It's been a while for him too, the change in position, but he figured it hadn't been quite as long as it had been for Brock. 

Having Brock beneath him now, naked and panting, his body opening up more with every passing second, Steve got a whole new taste for it. Brock's back was flushed so intensely it even bled down visibly onto the cheeks of his ass. The reddened tender skin beneath the dark hairs made Steve swallow every time he caught a glimpse of it. 

He tried to guide Brock's hips with his own though it was difficult and cost him more strength and focus than he would have liked, but Brock was still holding onto his one hand with clinging fingers and a strong grip and Steve needed the other one for leverage. 

He didn't want to ask Brock to get on all fours yet and probably wasn't going to at all if Brock wouldn't make motions to suggest the same. 

This wasn't the best position for him, for both of them really, but he had promised Brock he would make any arrangement work and he was determined to do just that. 

With Brock almost flat on the bed, legs only spread by that one knee he had slightly pushed out and used to push back, his hips tilted slightly inward though still, it was difficult for Steve to go as deep as he would have wanted, to fully bottom out even. On top of that he knew that, coming from this position, he would be lucky to hit that magic spot even once. 

It was a challenge to get through this in a way that wouldn't deny Brock of a spectacular orgasm, and Steve couldn't help but wonder if that was just another attempt of Brock's to sabotage himself. 

Now it was up to Steve to fix what couldn't be fixed and to compensate for what couldn't be compensated. 

He shifted his hips a little, trying all sides, less for himself and more to see how Brock was going to react. Most of Steve's thoughts were with strategizing, flipping through a mental catalogue of experiences and possibilities, the minority of them were with his own pleasure. He knew he was going to get off. One way or another. He wasn't bothered by the thought of this not being as mind-blowing for him as he hoped it would be for Brock. It was all he was focused on, getting Brock to enjoy this, enjoy himself, enjoy a broader variety of sexual acts. To make it happen was Steve's only quest. This time, his reputation really was on the line. 

Brock groaned with the changing pressure of the movement, held onto Steve's hand tighter and tried to recreate it by rolling his own hips with seemingly no preference this time for any angle. He just wanted Steve to move. Move things along. 

Steve couldn't help but smile, felt some sense of validation and just that bit of tender amusement he so often experienced when he discovered new parts of Brock. 

It was time to put all his skills to good use. He kissed Brock's neck again as he went for a first thrust, both actions taking focus from where Steve gently freed his hand from Brock's grip and ran it instead up along Brock's arm and then down his side until it rested against the side of his hip bone. 

Brock's harsh breaths filled the silence between them, his cut off moans and suppressed whines. 

"You okay?" Steve asked, although Brock didn't strike him as a guy who wouldn't articulate his disapproval. 

Brock turned his head again as best as he could and Steve realized he wasn't just trying to give Steve an answer but a smile too. 

"I'm old, you know, but I ain't fragile," he tried to convince Steve while he ran his wrist across his brows, wiping off sweat. "You don't have to hold back," he added, trying to catch another glimpse of Steve. 

Without pause, Steve took the opportunity to kiss the side of his jaw and go for another, more punctuated thrust. 

"You're unusually quiet that's all," Steve said and Brock immediately scoffed at the observation. 

"I told you I'd talk you through it, if that's what you need," he reminded Steve, almost daringly so. 

Steve was smiling again at Brock's tone, the defiance and his pride. There was a chance that Steve indeed needed it, that he needed the distraction, the reassurance, the spite. That by now he truly needed to be riled up like that for a good fuck. 

"Why do I feel like I'm letting you down again?" Brock asked, and Steve could see from the side of his face how his expression changed. His cheek was flushed now too and he squeezed his eyes shut as Steve pulled out a little before thrusting back in. "Isn't it my job just to do nothing? How do I fuck that up?" 

"You don't have a job," Steve assured him, using his hand for more touch, more contact, letting it run down all the way to Brock's thigh this time. 

"You're not going insane like me," Brock noted, his voice strained. "Not like I would if the roles were reversed." 

"How do you know that?" Steve asked although Brock wasn't wrong. If anything, Steve felt sane for the first time this week. 

Brock made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, and Steve could feel it resonate all the way down his back to where Brock involuntarily squeezed around Steve's dick. 

"Just tell me you're not bored," he said, sounding as if it was a painful thing to ask of Steve. 

Steve let his forehead bump against Brock's shoulder. One of these days, he was going to end up convinced that he was so dispassionate, so withdrawn and distant that Brock could indeed wonder about his interest while his hard cock was buried inside his ass. 

Out of frustration, Steve slung an arm around Brock, fingers splayed over his damp chest, and pulled him close. There wasn't really any space between them anyway, but Steve still pressed his body all the way against Brock's, pushing in as deep as he could considering the angle. He kissed along the curve of Brock's shoulder blade, then rested his cheek against it, Brock's ear close to his lips. 

"Don't you know that I've wanted you for years?" he asked then, his voice barely more than a whisper. Unintentionally so. 

Skin on skin, there was no room left for the question to linger between them, but it began to surround them, tragically soothing like the scent of sweetened tea in the midst of a blizzard. 

It was the kind of honesty that didn't hurt, the kind that brought upon a sigh of relief, of weight lifted and then put down in peace. 

Brock had his head hung low, hiding from Steve's gaze or replaying his words. Then he turned and Steve couldn't resist placing a kiss onto the corner of his mouth, satisfied when he felt him smile. 

"Don't just throw these sentences around," Brock said gently, "or else you won't know what to say at the wedding." He was already fully grinning as he spoke and relaxed more into the hold of Steve's body. 

Steve used the opportunity to adjust his thrusts to the leeway, move his hips more and pull out further before pushing back in harder. He wasn't bothered by Brock's comment, was preoccupied to use the opportunity to get Brock used to a new layer of intensity. 

"Have Jack tell the story of how he stood you up," he told Brock, his eyes were darting down though to catch a glimpse of his dick disappearing. It was a turnon every single time. 

Maybe his reply wasn't far enough out there to count for permission but it was ambiguous enough to see how he would feel about it later. To see how Brock would react to it now. 

But Brock remained silent apart from a couple of noises here and there, breathy small encouragements and tender bitten back groans as Steve put his body to work. 

Although he wasn't going insane, the angle still drove Steve crazy and he struggled to move in a manner he liked, a manner he enjoyed, a manner that would allow him to make this worthwhile for Brock. 

Eventually, after a couple more minutes of aimless thrusts and empty friction, he pulled out at once and away from Brock, just enough to give him room to roll over. 

"Turn around," he told him, only noticing now that he, too, was out of breath. 

Brock did as Steve had suggested, without complaining even, without challenging Steve on his request. Once they were face to face, Steve could see the full scope of his ruin, the effects of his work. 

Brock's face was flushed, so much Steve would have guessed, but his lips were bitten, swollen and red, there were tears, watery in the corner of his eyes and dried ones in his lashes. His forehead was sweaty and so was his hair, and he looked back at Steve not in anger but with excessive desperation. 

Steve froze for a second, having underestimated just how thoroughly he'd already fucked Brock, his own standards up on a different page. 

Brock's chest was rising and falling, still damp, and as Steve's gaze traveled down his stomach he noticed that Brock had already gone soft, residue of come smeared all around his flaccid cock, the rest of it wiped off on the sheets. 

The subsequent realization threw Steve off for a second time, not knowing when it had happened and how. 

"Sorry," Brock apologized. His voice was fucked up too but as there was no way to hide, no way to reframe the situation, he didn't bother to avert his eyes or use his hands to cover himself. 

Steve stared speechless, ashamed of how he had missed it, of how he hadn't been paying attention, had been too self-absorbed, had been putting down everything he knew about sex as the baseline of their experience together. 

"That's okay," Steve heard himself saying out of reflex. It startled himself and brought his focus back. "I was just about to pull all the stops," he added, got his face back under control and smiled at Brock. 

"Next time?" Brock asked, offered. Giving Steve hope that he was going to get another chance at this. 

Looking down at Brock, right there in front of him, open and vulnerable, emotionally and physically, Steve remembered his promise from earlier to not let it be weird after. 

He pushed himself forward on all fours and then crawled up to get closer to Brock. 

"Next time," Steve echoed before he kissed him, not quite finished yet. "Wanna give me a hand?" he asked, his lips still close to Brock's. "Or just watch me." He tried to sound casual enough about it, although he was mainly improvising. 

Brock ran his hands up Steve's arms, over his elbows and onto his shoulders before he pulled him into another kiss. He took his time deciding, let himself get lost in the kiss instead, coming down from his high, from the embarrassment, from that one moment of utter uncertainty about how they would proceed. 

Meanwhile, Steve was still hard and kissing Brock like that ensured that it was going to stay that way. 

"Or you could finish what we've started," Brock offered, keeping Steve close with his arms around him. 

"That's what I'm trying to do," Steve said, although he knew exactly what Brock was trying to say. But Steve wasn't particularly eager to fuck Brock just for the sake of it. He'd rather focus on himself and only himself. He let his hand wander down to his cock, giving himself a few gentle strokes over the condom to emphasize his intentions. 

"Let me help," Brock decided finally, but there was still hesitation left in his tone and the look on his face. 

"But?" Steve asked, hoping he could just prompt Brock to disclose whatever issue was bothering him. 

"Nothing, I just," he started, eyes darting around nervously. "I want to help, but I was wondering if you would do that thing again," he said ominously. "With your mouth and your tongue and your-." 

That was where he left Steve to fill in the blanks. And it took him a good couple of seconds. 

"And come on you?" he asked just to be sure. 

Brock nodded. "Wherever you want." 

It was the worst thing to say really, because obviously the face was always tempting but difficult to justify. Lucky for Steve, it was simply unfit for their plans anyway so he just leaned back until he bracketed Brock with his knees on either side of his hips and slipped the condom off. 

Brock's hand was already on him before he could even think about asking him again if that was what he wanted. His fingers were damp but nowhere near as slick enough so Steve reached for the lube to help him out. 

Then Brock jerked him off with a steady rhythm, both of them benefitting from the angle that was so similar to getting himself off. 

Steve tried to simply enjoy the touch, let his head fall back as he breathed with the tides of his arousal, following the waves in search of that one spectacular crash. He allowed himself to get lost now, knowing he would need a bit of a heat clouded mind to deliver what Brock wanted to watch him do again. Feel him do again. 

Time slowed for a bit with Brock's fingers wrapped around him, his head finally catching up with the situation. Finally understanding the urgency with which Brock had asked Steve to move things along. Before he got a chance to dwell it, everything sped up again with the stimulation, his body eager now for its own release. 

As gentle as he could, Steve placed his own hand over Brock's, guiding him for a few seconds before slowly taking over. Brock let go, let his arm fall to his side and focused solely on watching. 

Being back in control, Steve braced himself for his own climax, determined to get it right, use it, and not let it take over and drag him under. 

He didn't know exactly where he was aiming and for what purpose, just knew that since he was supposed to taste it later, he'd want it off his favorite spots on Brock chest. 

He missed the dip in Brock's collarbone by half an inch on his first try but caught his nipple right away on a third spurt. Most of what was left in him went into his own fist as he stroked himself through his climax. 

Afterwards he took a moment to just admire his work, take notice of a couple of stray drops, one running down the side of Brock's neck and one caught on the underside of his chin. Brock's face was full of lust, a second wave of arousal and excitement written all over it. Despite everything there wasn't a single trace of submission in his expression. 

Steve held his eyes for a long moment before he dipped down to put his mouth over Brock's nipple, sucking it clean. Brock gasped and his hips jerked and one of his hands came up, gently resting on Steve's back as he made his way upward. 

The taste clung to the farthest corner of his mouth, to the back of his tongue and throat, but it didn't stop Steve to go about every new spot with that same amount of enthusiasm. 

Brock accompanied his journey with a variety of curses and noises, his fingers digging into the muscles of Steve's back with more force now.

Where his come had pooled by Brock's collar, Steve used the flat of his tongue to lick it off, careful not to suck on the skin and leave any mark. 

He kissed down Brock's neck and followed the trail of his own release until the bitter mist had faded from the salt and all he tasted was Brock's sweat. 

At last he dragged his lips along Brock's jaw and chin, making sure he hadn't missed anything. 

It was only then that he lifted his head back up to watch Brock and meet his gaze again. Await his appraisal. 

Brock looked at him shaken and out of breath, a little more worked up than Steve would have thought but at least he did well on his promise to distract Brock enough from the aftermath of the penetration to not have it be weird. At least he hoped it had been enough. 

Brock brought his hand to Steve's face to trace his bottom lip with one finger, skin dry and hot. 

"What are you?" he asked, his voice as fucked as his question. 

Steve just stared at him, speechless once more. Then he wasn't even expected to answer anymore as Brock pushed past his lips just like he'd done that first night they hooked up. Steve could feel Brock growing hard again, the tip brushing against the side of his butt. Still, to Steve's surprise and relief as well as his disappointment, Brock didn't seem interested to act upon it. He was more interested in feeding Steve's mouth two of his fingers. 

"Look at that," he commented, his obsession taking on a bizarrely new form. Steve hoped he wouldn't be expected to take a third one. Or take Brock's cock with the addition of an extra fingertip or two. 

Why he let Brock do what he did, Steve couldn't explain. Why he didn't protest. Why he didn't move except for when he swallowed with his teeth against Brock's knuckles. Why he wanted the moment to last forever. 

With his fingers pressed against Steve's tongue Brock guided Steve down into what he thought was going to be a kiss but ended up being a simple hug. Wrapping an arm around Steve, Brock was holding Steve against his chest, fingers slipping free last-minute. 

For a second, Steve was torn between worry and arousal, doubting that Brock had wetted them for nothing and was going straight for his ass now. But he didn't. And Steve had more mixed feelings about that. 

Brock just brought both hands up, against Steve's neck and up into his hair, pulling him closer for a couple of seconds before letting him go. 

"This feels surreal," Brock said then. Nothing in his face indicated that he thought it a misplaced sentiment. "You really are annoyingly good at this." He smiled but the addition made his whole remark twice as odd. 

Steve didn't know what to reply and he was suddenly hyper aware of his own position and how his knees had started to hurt. 

He climbed over Brock and let himself fall into the sheets, stretching out his legs. Brock's erection had started to flag again and so Steve felt safe enough now to let himself cool down too. 

"What was that about just now?" he asked. With Brock, letting things slide was a dangerous thing. "What you said and then what you did?" 

Brock turned on his side and watched Steve for a moment. He ran a finger along each rib as he considered the question or deliberated about his answers. 

"I can't believe you're with me, that's all," he settled for eventually. "I think I'm lucky." 

Steve nodded although he didn't believe him. And suddenly it was him again, the one feeling weird. Wrong even. 

"We should do this more often," Brock said quietly. Another surprise. 

And yet Steve was left feeling disappointed. Everything different from how he had expected this night to go. 

"You're staying, no?" Brock asked and Steve could tell he was nervous. There was no reason to. Steve nodded, not sure he could trust his tone yet to be as light as possible. Didn't know if he could fake the weightlessness of it all. Whether he could stand hearing it. 

Something was bothering Steve but he didn't know yet if it was Brock's question or the averted kiss. If it was the sex that had ended so abruptly, so different from what Steve had envisioned. Although he could barely recall how he had wanted it to come to a conclusion. With more than Brock's silence and his apology, that much he was sure of. If it was the taste of his own come for someone else's pleasure entirely. Whatever it was, it was taking hold of Steve's mood. 

"You're quiet," Brock said, but it was neither a statement nor a question. It was an accusation. 

"Why did you want me to do that?" he asked and Brock sighed audibly at the question. 

"Because it's hot," Brock said matter-of-factly and without any hint of shame. 

"And convenient?" Steve added, didn't dare to look at Brock. 

"What's the problem here, Steve?" Brock asked back, propping himself up on his elbow. He leaned in, but not too far, rubbing his eyes as if to wake himself up, to prepare himself for the conversation. 

"Nothing," Steve said, then corrected himself. "I don't know." He glanced at Brock once, pulling his gaze away as soon as their eyes met. "You didn't kiss me," he added, feeling embarrassed. 

The feelings didn't subside but thickened once he heard Brock laughing next to him. When he glanced at him again, Brock was already halfway into his space and a second later Brock's lips were on his. But just as fast as they had been pressed against his they disappeared again, Brock pulling back after just that single kiss. 

"You don't want it romantic but you don't want it just about sex either," he stated, his tone amused. Steve was jealous of it. Amusement was how he reacted to Brock's irritations, not the other way around. "I think I'm gonna need a couple more tries to get it right." 

"Maybe things have changed," Steve admitted. 

"Meaning?" Brock wondered. 

"Meaning I didn't know it was going to be like that," Steve clarified. 

"Like how?" Brock asked nonetheless. 

"We say these things," Steve started, but he knew it wasn't correct. "The things you say," he tried again, "or do to me at times, it's a lot to process." 

At once Brock seemed to understand even more than Steve. He nodded and kissed Steve's shoulder before he pulled Steve close with an arm around his waist. 

"If you're worried I'm thinking less of you the more we sleep together, don't be," he told Steve. Then let go of him, unsure whether he was allowed to hold him. "I'm past all that," he insisted.

Steve was listening intently although he wasn't sure whether he was going to like what he would hear. He was unsure, too, of the proximity, didn't even know himself if he wanted to be held. 

"I was giving you space because I thought you needed it," Brock went on. "Not because I think you're fucked up for what I saw you do or because you get off on the things I say. I mean, I ask you to do these things and it's not just you who gets off on it. I do too." 

It was a correction, an admission that was meaningful to Steve and he welcomed it by letting his body relax against Brock's right next to him. 

"I just didn't think you'd want me to draw more attention to it by making a big deal out of this later," Brock continued. "I didn't think you would appreciate it." 

"And if?" Steve asked, tilting his head so he could look at Brock. "I wanted it?"

"Then that's how we're gonna do it from now on," Brock assured him, kissing Steve's temple just a second later. 

* * *

And he would have. He would have done better by Steve the next time if only there had been a next time. 

Something had indeed changed that day but Brock didn't know if it could have been averted. Looking back, which he still so often did, nothing had indicated that they were about to walk different paths entirely. They had texted a couple of times but it had never led to anything. Both of them busy with different things. Different lives. 

He'd only heard it from Sharon weeks later. After Thanksgiving had long passed. Thanksgiving that Brock had spent with Jack and his family and later the weekend with Sharon while Jack worked another double shift for Pierce. 

It was during work that she'd told them what she'd learned from some flight crew passing through security. That Steve had given notice. That the days of Captain America at Chicago O'Hare would soon be over. 

And Brock had been tempted to text again then, ask if Steve was okay and learn about his reasons. Understand them. But he could already guess what had happened. The jet lag and the time zones could have forced Steve to his knees. The chronic insomnia possibly made him a liability. Maybe he had even fallen out with Wilson after kissing Brock at the terminal. 

All of it sounded awful, but Brock found himself relieved too. He liked to think that Steve just needed a break. A vacation. And Brock told himself that it wasn't his place to interfere with that. 

Some part of him was too proud and too cowardly too, was scared Steve would ask for answers in return. 

Answers as to why Jack had been staying over every night that week, why he'd stopped using the doorbell and used the key instead like it was his. Why neither of them was planning on attending Barnes' Christmas party and why Brock didn't mind switching these days. Why all of Steve's texts were still on his phone. 

There was no easy answer to all of that. 

The weeks before Christmas were the worst in any airport calendar. There were always delays, people travelling home for the holidays, suitcases packed with gifts that set off alarms regularly. Brock was tired. End of the year tired. 

He was on a shift with Jack, occasionally flirting with a quick glance, but mostly he just felt contentment now when they looked at each other. He knew it wasn't sustainable, --working together, living together, sleeping together--, but Brock didn't mind the prospect. He had already started looking for a new job too. If Steve could make a break, then so could he. 

He shouldn't have thought about Steve that day, about that little toy plane he had noticed in that corner store in New York, then bought on a whim only to feel embarrassed whenever he had looked at it again. Later thinking he would give it to Steve for Christmas. 

He shouldn't have thought about that and felt this hopeless about it. 

Because then there he was, of course, as tempting as ever and why wouldn't life fuck with him like that?

But Steve wasn't alone. He had a whole flight crew in tow although no Falcon. 

However, there was another familiar face among the group, a guy Brock had almost forgotten about. That newbie flight attendant that had so carelessly passed his phone around. His phone with pictures of Steve on them. 

Brock could feel the jealousy and the hatred and the anger taking hold of him at once, but he knew it wasn't his place to express them. So he swallowed it all down, thanked God that he was trained to keep his composure and stepped up to the scanner. He looked up to find Steve's gaze already waiting for him and in their eye contact Brock discovered that whatever he thought might have cooled by now hadn't. 

There was inconvenience in the moment, an audience of curious eyes and loose tongues, and the clock was ticking, time running out for them. But Brock held no grudge against them for failures and losses, he harbored no resentment. They had tried. And the moment was still perfect. 

He nodded at Steve and Steve nodded back before stepping in. The side of his neck and lower back lit up on the monitor shortly after and Brock gestured for Steve to step aside with him while the rest of his flight crew continued with their security checks. 

When he turned his back he heard someone whistle and he wasn't surprised to catch that same newbie attendant who hadn't been a newbie for a long time,-- not since he'd fucked Steve--, showing an ugly grin. Brock saw him slip some remark to the person in front of him too, but couldn't make out a single word with the distance the body scanner put between them. 

Brock didn't know what his problem was. Maybe Steve had ruined him too. Maybe he wanted to ruin Steve for a second time. A second night. 

"I bet you at least regret letting this guy do all those things to you," Brock muttered, stroking over and along the collar of Steve's shirt, sliding a finger underneath although he knew he wouldn't find anything tucked beneath or sown into it. 

Steve remained wordless, but when Brock caught a glimpse of the look on his face, it spoke for itself. Told Brock everything he needed to know. 

That he was a goddamn idiot. 

A goddamn gullible idiot.

"You never let that guy do anything to you, did you?" Brock asked, but it wasn't really a question. It was a realization. "It was a lie." 

He was frozen for a second before he remembered where he was, then glanced at his monitor again because he'd forgotten which side of Steven's back to check. 

But when he looked back, Steve held his eyes once more and Brock didn't move, stayed close at Steve's side. He didn't care if he was going to cause a small hold up at the line for the scanners. 

"All those pictures he showed around," Brock muttered and shook his head over his own stupidity while piecing together what he couldn't know for sure under Steve's gaze. "They were probably pulled off the internet." 

"What pictures?" Steve asked, finally spoke. Their eyes were still locked and something seemed to unfold between them. Something familiar that had been tucked away but never tossed. Something like trust. 

"And everyone believed him," Brock added though it wasn't what Steve had asked. He was too busy talking to himself. Too busy being caught up in them standing here, face to face once more. "I believed him." He finally found some focus then, nudged Steve's arms up a little and placed his palm flat over Steve's flank. "But you never slept with him," he just stated then, "and the guy in those pictures, that wasn't you."

"And if?" Steve asked, because he was a fucking bastard looking to challenge Brock every chance he got. Looking for a fight around every corner. But there were tender lines in the corner of his eyes and the ghost of a smile on his lips. 

"Then you should know that I had been thinking of what it'd be like to work you over like that ever since," Brock told him without blinking or batting an eye. "And it had always been better than what I'd imagined." 

Steve held his gaze for a long moment, seemingly trying to decide if he could live with that answer. Do something with it. If he could leave with it. Maybe even be satisfied with it.

"It's been a while," he noted then, said nothing more. But he didn't move away from Brock either and so they remained close. Too close. 

Brock's hand was still by Steve's side, feeling for any suspicious items. There were none except for the steady beat of his heart. 

"Nothing's changed," Brock told him before retrieving his hands so Steve could drop his. It was one more lie.

Everything had changed. But Brock still wanted him. Still loved him. It was a chronic condition, but it was manageable. The pain had leveled out. He had someone to help him carry it now. 

There was still something there, between them, some spark that refused to die out. And if Brock wasn't mistaken, Steve walked away with a smile. 

It was likely the last time they'd ever run into each other for security checks, would likely be one of the last times Steve was outbound from O'Hare. And that certainty was the only thing stopping Brock from mirroring it. 

"Have a safe flight," he added instead, too quietly and only to himself. Thinking that maybe it wasn't going to be the last time they'd run into each other in Chicago. Thinking that maybe they'd find their way back. Cross paths. Make up for it. 

Thinking that this wasn't the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank you for reading until the end and me for finishing this ❤️ It wasn't always easy but we made it :')
> 
> [For more Steve, you can check out the last part of the Brock POV for this chapter :D ]

**Author's Note:**

> [Brock POV here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375467)


End file.
